[Let this be a gift, my lover not met]
Let this be a gift, my lover not met
This shaky sonnet of weak, boyish hands
With eyes that gaze and trembling mind beset
I live up the dream, stupidly make plans
Await as your gentle brown hair flits by
Marvel the saccharine scent of your air
Contrite by the mind bewitching my eye
Guilty for my presence in yours, unfair
Your lithe little hands in my crumby own
And cute red lips pursed with naïveté
Pouring out poetry like pregnant tomes
And you’re wisdom abundant, be it may
Be you different with quirk, an odd one please
And I’ll always be the one who n’er flees.