Its all I’ve dreamed of having,
Where Will, we be tomorrow.
to save me from,
Venison’s dear, isn’t it;
Sometimes I just wander.
Why does my har-t mix for you
& name You, like a blunder–
Your style and grace… Are blunderbus
With eys that start me spinning.
My heart, dear lamb…
I adore your Turtle-doves.
Above, below; to feel your flow
Even when I’mlost, your winning
I’d name my poems all over again…
To keep you from complaining
But I’ll only know the purest snow–
When I’ve finally s-topped raining.
–Honestly, you’re exausting ❤