The inconsistencies were nothing to her
The slips
The ice that was freezing her
Had started to melt
Into his eyes like summer
The beautiful thing is that it moves-
Rather, it's moving
Slowly at a pace compatible to
His breath as he is almost asleep
He rarely ever does, which adds to the beauty
She moves too fast
Frantically until she tires herself
And falls asleep on his shoulder on the way home--
Don't be silly:

I have always loved you,
Just not this dearly.