Might I give to thee

Might I give to thee the loving-kindness of which I am deserving? In your eyes, I theorize less treachery. It’s a tragedy of beauty to be crumpled by the wind—all the words I’ve never said to brush against your skin. In the moments of daylight—soft and effervescent—you’ll feel me in the birdsong and hear me in the flowers, as they sway, barefoot and careless, swimming with the catfish. You’ll dream of quiet desires—that night beside the fire—your youth a’bloom, and gloom all doomed, and wonder if it’s true. I’m leaving in the morning but—no less—do I love you.