(no subject)
He observed your courtly beauty from afar,
For as long as the butterflies had occupied his insides,
Or so he’d attest.
He sat many a night awake I’m sure,
Pondering how one might rid them selves of such discomfort,
Only to come to the conclusion that one mustn’t,
If in that delightful uneasiness they are not alone.
He dreamt in wake and sleep of your’ grace,
Of the ‘would-be’ conversations,...
And your mystery...
Even of a lovely face such as yours,
Aged 80 gentle years, along with his.
No one else could this boy see,
Holding his hand,
Or whispering close to his ear the words that make one feel
Not so alone as they’d felt before...
Before the butterflies,
Whose wings are now tethered by your intention.
And so, my dear girl,
When he speaks to you with shaky voice, of closure,
Don’t pretend you haven’t the slightest idea why.
For as long as the butterflies had occupied his insides,
Or so he’d attest.
He sat many a night awake I’m sure,
Pondering how one might rid them selves of such discomfort,
Only to come to the conclusion that one mustn’t,
If in that delightful uneasiness they are not alone.
He dreamt in wake and sleep of your’ grace,
Of the ‘would-be’ conversations,...
And your mystery...
Even of a lovely face such as yours,
Aged 80 gentle years, along with his.
No one else could this boy see,
Holding his hand,
Or whispering close to his ear the words that make one feel
Not so alone as they’d felt before...
Before the butterflies,
Whose wings are now tethered by your intention.
And so, my dear girl,
When he speaks to you with shaky voice, of closure,
Don’t pretend you haven’t the slightest idea why.