I feel the courage to hold her hand underneath the trees
This is where she walked the other day reading that book
The benches where she sat crossed legged
The skirt of her dress blowing in the wind still lingers
I don't want the weather to change
If I only get to see her during her favourite season
Though I want to witness all her entirety
Who is she in winter
What does she do in autumn
How does she write in spring
Yet I cannot figure out where the hell she disappears to in summer
All I know is that each time she carries her bag
I wonder what is accompanying her in there
I want to carry it for her