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Oh so young when first i fell to fawn |
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But now its four years on |
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And though slight your shape belies |
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The teenage timbre of your tongue |
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Face and frame precious and plain |
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Yet all such things one day succumb |
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You were 10 as i turned 21 |
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But now its four years on |
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Liberties such as these scarcely trouble me |
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Sweet sweet weakness |
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Brings the way you tease |
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Quattordici and spotty cheeks |
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Favors me such strange relief from certain culpabilities |
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And renders seemed so indiscreet someday to which wed seldom speak |
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So tender me this decency |
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That stays thee safely out of reach |
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All the same were it true |
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Still theres room for two inside of you |
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But whats come over me |
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Would i falter hapless in your (fluidly) |
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Of spare expanse beneath |
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Oh no not me so sickened to the teeth |
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To see thee roam free of hallowed modesties |
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But all that i could be among |
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Those fresh and fair faced thieves |
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That stand to seize |
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Your sunbleached symmetries |
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And piece by piece these brief eventualities |
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Would ween of me and feats from far from me |
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Would treat you tenderly |
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Until you cease to be |
