Young Writers Society

Yes, I shall compare thee to a summer’s day.
 
Thou art, in fact, too temperate,
or perhaps I do mean temporary. 
 
Your eyes are borne of brindle briar,
bay flecked with the green
of a wave crest in the sun,
bound to break upon the shore of my skin
 and collapse beneath your eyelids.
 
Time has tangled itself into your wild hair
with minutes dripping down your sea-salt lips and
forming puddles on the floor,
the heat so enamored with your breath. 
 
Will you ever wonder what this was worth,
the fragile state of my adoration for your
 steady smile that glides and gleams
like the silhouette of a seagull above our heads  
and flutters down towards the sea?
 
Yes, I shall compare thee to a summer’s day,
skin scorched and hot like the sand beneath our feet
while your eyes accumulate sun and silent ways
to say goodbye in time, while moments tick
with every word we try (and fail) to say.
 
Summer love, like a summer’s day....
Shall I compare thee yet again?