As I relentlessly tread around as to what to do about you boy, you settle yourself into the couch as lackadaisically as an uninterested spectator. As and if I ask you to leave, you shrug and make a move. If only my spirit was as strong, 'cause the sooner I say that, I'm tempted to pull you into a close embrace, and as your lips passionately close on mine, the world seems perfect, and at peace.
But yours, is a sauntering heart.
It scampers, to rest on me,
only to cruise away.
What do I do about your vagabond spirit, boy.
but only in the superficial retreats,
I wish you and I existed.
But then again, we do,
and we manage, pretty well.
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