Mine own lingering love,
like a fawn in a meadow
Lurking cautiously.
It hath no place here,
yet only here it is.

Mine own love lingers.
Like the echoes of a siren
present in a sailor's head.
A voiceless lamentation.

My love should not linger,
units of hurt,
of pain,
barrel down all at once.

A fawn, murdered by a crimson bullet;
A siren's song, questioned and forgotten.

They do not have lingering love,
they are hurt.

As am I.
But I do not care.
I only love

And my lingering love does not care.