is still on my fingertips,
in my hair
It hangs around me softly,
like a comfortable old shirt
patient enough to let me wear it still.
The image of you
is still on my mind,
in my eyes
it’s said a thing of beauty
is a joy for ever and ever and
(I think it was Keats)
The touch of you
lingers on my skin,
in my heart
Will it hurt if you go?
Suppose so—I suppose,
But you’d always have been worth it.
But you’d always have been worth it.
