In summer fields
He commits many wrongs
Not brutally but just
Defaced by love.
Many long years
From the first day he stood
Out to me, while I thought
It was but love
And it was. Although I
Don't say or tell him
He is someone who
Saw me and loved me
For who I was, a rare,
Startling thing.
We're getting older
Childhood you are so
Flimsy and immaterial.
Still we are friends
And still I feel something
Like love.
YOU ARE READING
Petrichor
PoetryWe grow old eventually {here are the waking thoughts that consume me}
