in poet's words, i write to thee
my heart does race, my legs to flee,
i wish my words did speak a truth
save for a hand to blush in youth.
i wonder what say thee when read
and if in silence i do shed
the layer so to quick in blush
with colour to my cheeks do rush.
when before thee, my mind does wish
not full of worry and anguish
that i would settle whilst reveal
the excitement my body feels;
instead i ask in pleasantries
the small words in civilities.
`t. imaan tretchicovmanicova
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