The Question

Speaking to me wth your touch, in the dimly lit room in summertime, love lives in the room next door presumably, and she darts like a butterfly, settling here and settling there, and so you dwell, sweet lady in the door next to love, in focus, concentrated, and then so, we come together once again, in moments of our lives, you for your reason, and I, for mine, and now the moment of being with you, doesn't wish to leave or betray you, wishes to be constant to you, and recent memory, and I think perhaps, that you fit the most with my style, with my need, outside of permanancy, and before, I had thought of some kind of future guilt, of indignity, and now it has been swept aside, and eyes collide at a point of difference, and the moon looks on, questioning me, and no doubt you, and my answer is yet in the making, and I wonder if you have even yet heard the question.