Press your beating heart to mine,
allow our hearts to beat in time.
Mine could race, and eyes could swim,
at the sight of something fateless begin.
Indeed it was my eyes that ran,
as I ran home, lest storm began,
as you admitted your hearts true beat,
as I returned where we should meet
middle, and so , perhaps I should wait?
but what happens to love when waited to late?
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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Poet
Love. that mere illusion that we create everytime the heart patters. It waits for those that reach out , grab it and truely know what love is. Often being confused with the lust word. Write on young poet.
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