My dear, you soon will leave me, but only for a week.
My tiny voice tremble, to you it must seem meek.
Although I would like you to ask for me, I know this is never how things will be.
I am so nervous as I start to stumble in my articulation.
I cannot stand all that I feel, all of this frustration!
But it must be said and only by me, asked by you it will never be.
I sound like a fool, but I cannot back out, the question is merely asked.
I have tried to bury these feelings under the soil of my past,
But these feelings still show; I have not buried only seeded to grow.
So now this is no longer a seed, it is as uncontrollable as an unkempt weed.
