Young love

Young and of spritely nature, you are now aware of the existence of a milk-skinned maiden, clad in the armor of spring’s flourish.
important words, words that leave the ever-abstruse machinations of time jittering and unsure, escape with tense surety.
as important as the works of the heart of echo herself, and less taciturn, perhaps.

though i am useless
love me anyway
and this sadness is what love is –

though we retire to clover fields
chastise me for meandering too often
and this joy is what love is –

my brother, allow just this of a soul perhaps too tempted to stare ahead blithely –

enjoy all of this. always remember every single thing.

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