Summer is far off, and no sooner will it be here,
maybe one or two or even more after this year,
its selfish of me to claim myself a season,
this complicated feeling partly to reason,
My poems for her, myself I still write,
I still wanna talk, most every night,
But I do not want to claim, your heart must be free,
You help me so much, if it's still meant to be,
A tragic slip is all it would take to make it,
So really nothing has changed, but I still feel grand,
When someday we shall lie on that sand,
My poems are simple and have the same rhyme,
But it seems my greatest enemy will always be time.
Edit one last line, but don't worry, your all mine.
