The weight of the world smothers me,
leaving troubles in my head,
yet you soften me with tranquility;
your own weight upon my bed.

And what a waste of poetry,
to forget what you bestow.
So I’ll write to you dear, so breathlessly,
to tell you of what I owe.

Without you I live absently,
just a shape within this world.
For, you’re the blossom of the cherry tree,
the colour of life unfurled.

So think not on the atrophy
of my day-to-day romance,
and more so upon the fluidity
of which you and I do dance.

We dance to divine simile,
and I write of what was left.
You may say that I write with such beauty;
but without you I’m bereft.

Bereft of any symmetry,
devoid of your wholesome kiss,
for, it’s with kindness that you nourish me,
and leave me in fateful bliss.