I won’t compose prose every morning you open your eyes next to me (I won’t compare you to a summer’s day).
I won’t kiss the tears from your cheeks whenever you cry.
I won’t remember every appointment.
I won’t keep the sheen on my armour.
I won’t know what to say sometimes.
I won’t get your order right.
I’ll be late.
I’ll fuck-up.
But I’ll write something for you when you least expect it (in summer or winter).
But I’ll hold you as tight as I can whenever I can.
But I’ll burst through the door as soon as I remember.
But I’ll polish it until it shines again.
But I’ll say something anyway.
But I’ll go back and make it right.
But I’ll get there.
But I’ll try.
Back to econs madness~