Their tenderness, a plea,
a longing for praise from me.
Familiar grace, a known art,
yet distanced, worlds apart.
Once, tales spun, flawed and frail,
stories whispered, meant to fail.
Still, mistrust lingers, a shade,
the old suspicions never fade.
Why not this grove, a sacred space,
a love's shrine, a hallowed place?
Beneath these trees, our souls aligned,
a memory etched in time.
The thirst for beauty, now unseen,
the longing eye, no longer keen.
Yet windows beckon, still they call,
whispering secrets, to enthrall.
Each night, drunk on your form,
a vision, weathering every storm.
A broken vase, a shattered dream,
fragments lost, it would seem.
Their tenderness, a plea,
a longing for praise from me.
Familiar grace, a known art,
yet distanced, worlds apart.
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