Each morning I stare at the skies, always displaying a different image; the clouds never the same. One day a school of fish; another, trails of the wind. And the moon, her light began to wane. I fear that perhaps this love shall wane with her, and know that I am very much being paranoid.
When was it that we first met? Winter
When was it that we first spoke? Spring
And summer brought the blooming flowers.
I trust myself no longer.
I care not for what the others think.
All there is; is me, and you.
Shall we not dance to the summer melody?
Shall we not remember the summer nights?
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