Poems.

Poem Two.

Seasons.

Your eyes, like blossom flutter over me, and in doing so an eyelash falls to your cheek.

I'd reach up to remove it, dear, but I know you'll flinch and say 'please don't tickle me'.

I'd compare you to a summer's day, but that idea's been taken.

Instead i'll write bad poems for you, about love and sin.

I live through our love worried,

particularly that you might feel hurried,

and do something frightfully rash, like fall out of love with me.

With not reference to a summer's day,

but instead a whole british summer,

i worry our love will finish too quickly,

like a race with a drugged up runner.

And I worry that my tears would fall like the leaves in autumn,

and left like the empty husks of trees,

or even more than.

And the snow would fall and dust me in sorrow,

and all around me, i'd grow jealous of the evergreen trees,

and they'll say:

'don't worry: just like last time you'll blossom again.'

But without you I won't.