When I think of the blades of grass which make up your love for her
It blunts my growth.
Those blades cut me
               and I am enduring this field because I can't resist your air.
I am addicted.

My skin is utterly bare and your softness scratches, leaving scars.

Of all the fields I could have come across and traveled through,
why this one?

It's almost Spring and perhaps with the new things you might
disappear slowly from my path.

But no doubt your field will soak up her sun
       and the grass will grow evermore,
whilst I am gone.