I write you an ode of your own; making away with the same rules you do – I think. Not sure you read one or any. I may be your momentary Titania, though you are not Oberon, but… Bottom. Dear, you are scorned, though you have shown me more bravery and valour than those who embark on life below the same banners, dressed in the part. You meet me often – often disconcertingly often offering your services in the service of me. Me half bewildered and unreceiving. Your half-coy half – courageous smile chasing away unsuitable company, putting your every ability and trade at my disposal.
I am warned, and you are demoted by my proud disdainfuls. What right have I to disapprove of you? How am I better or in any way deserving of these affections in return for which you don’t even know who I am. For these reasons and that cut above your eye. Your sun-drenched complexion and your blue collar pride I write you this ode. Just once.
I’ll never show you my heart. I’ll never share my dreams or breath with you – but you deserve in some way to be honoured in prose. To be called “love” minus the possessive pronoun.
May you be a brightly polished knight, once morning comes and these words are lost in the dew. You are beautiful in your own right. May no one ever look down on you again.
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