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You're my sweet (yet beseech and in turmoil) child creature carrying with insolent foretells. The way you hold between your fore finger and thumb, the malicious anger, you often snap that explodes a deafening sound. I can lie in a tomb and feel more lively than be by the side of your side who lively stands. I would rather be a weed in a field blooming alone, than be a dandelion in a crowd of dandelions if you were one in the crowd as well too. I'd rather receive no kiss by your love, not a hug by your touch, no- not a even a word or muttering whisper said by your breath. But- still you're my sweet, like thick river flows of honey down a hive, to allow such feeling of rubbish overbearing pain that a human can ever feel- You make me feel like woman.