Soft grey clouds stretch to the horizon:
svelte, occasionally undulating, blanketing.
You walk in their perpetual shade; at each moment,
a million droplets threaten to obscure your frame.
A chill wind strikes at your sweatshirt, whipping it about;
it seeps in, toying with you, sapping heat for no purpose.
Still, I wish to walk with you, to shuffle through the dampness;
leaves clinging to our shoes, listening to the wind in the trees.
I watch as images flow from your pen;
they're trapped in my mind: beautiful, evocative.
Sadly I trundle away, my head quickly turns,
wishing that this could be, yet too reticent, coy to ask.
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