Sonnet #40: "M23"

I pack my bags in haste, it's not too soon
to load the car again - another trip
down South, to Brighton in the afternoon
to you, your arms, your constant comradeship,
your patience with my dull timidity:
my failure to give in to kindly fate,
to own my feelings, the rapidity,
the rush of blood, the tongue-tied nervous state
which you provoke. Your presence fills my world
so no-one else is there, though in a crowd -
there is just you. I keep this secret curled
up in my mind: it cannot be allowed
or spoken. Let us do crosswords instead.
This clue must burn on, safe inside my head.