Work Text:
Hiking, sweat dripping,
head lolling and smirking.
Chancing glances, smiling faces,
Looking great and knowing it.
The trail wound, the trees swooned,
And you, oh you, just a backpack in front of me, and I’m doomed.
Old jeans, long sleeves,
Old chap, he believes,
That I’m nothing if not a stranger,
And boy it makes you wonder,
If our hearts take aim,
Mine cries your name.
We come to a river,
And here I quiver,
Because as I, what you may call slutty,
No shirt and plenty
Of muscle in sight,
With shorts and bright
Green shoes,
You, my dear,
All covered up,
you poor old chap,
And I know what will happen,
What need to commence,
For us to cross
And travel hence.
Fabric stretching, down you lean,
Nonchalantly rolling the cuffs of your jeans,
As I watched you mesmerized,
Mouth agape,
Forgive me my dear,
My mind has escaped.
On your dainty thin ankle,
There lay a circlet
Made of circuits,
Lovingly crafted and handmade in a tangle.
You smiled at me, and then we crossed,
Oh dear me, I might be lost.