A detached reply.

Shun i do not, but i must now leave
You say tis love in you, but i see you seethe,
and tis the temper in you and not the tempest
which, regardless of self talk, you cant resist
and so it rises up and blows too strong
gets behind your sail and steers you wrong.
Your eyes do cloud, but the mist is red,
angry thoughts, on loving words unsaid,
have left you hot, whilst i stand here cold
but i may yet thaw as the year grows old
a stark contrast to the seasons at hand
Autumn and winter, making their deathly stand.
I could not ask you to sit and wait
yet i do beseech you, think of me when you think of fate.

The lover's plea

I beseech you, Shun me not!
For the love i harbour thee cannot be got
by trivial means or much self talk
and cannot be stoppered like champagne with cork.
For this tempest in me will overflow
and spill from my eyes if thou dost go
And so my eyes become the clouds, dense and grey
That cast a fog upon each day
which obscures my vision and steers me wrong
And the world seems big, a maddening throng.
With such small steps i cannot prevail
to escape this crowd and so i fail
to make small progress every day
and yearn to hear you say you'll stay.