Our fingers intertwine

On a park bench in May,
Our fingers intertwine.
We don't have much to say,
But your gloved hand's in mine.

We watch the pigeons dine,
And fly to up above.
I look into the brine;
Up rises one white dove.

All I can feel is love;
I hope you feel it too.
I pull off one black glove
To feel closer to you.

You recoil from my skin.
This can't be love we're in.

--

A/N: I wanted to try a Spenserian rhyme scheme..