It’s
mythical to see you, my dear beloved, asearch for something
pure.
But every gesture a caveat, where hearts roam freely, and
pose
as enigmas. It’s deeply surreal, to thumb a palm, staring
into
windmills. There’s a tinge of saintly, a laconic expression, as
complicated
as jigsaw thoughts. I come with ambition, a sage’s
soul,
partly embarrassed; for love impassions, a nonchalant aura,
immortal
in its implications. I’m soon exhausted, to claim a star,
to
gambol with joy. So instill a soul, where ripples bleed, longing
for
a soothing whisper; for we cuddle flowers, to paint a vision,
mourning
impasto pains. I envision you, running to luminosity,
sheltered
by a storm. Anger colors disposition, fixed in its
expression,
tearing open a teal sky. But ever a stippled love,
trekking
dot to dot, suffering upon a spectrum. It was dearly
ballet,
word to verse, rehearsing lines. We played it coy, applying
arithmetic,
stranded in a dessert. I envied your smile, to keep it
secret,
fueled by your laughter. Such was symmetry, a touch of
gold,
a need for wildlife. It was ever a venture, a fey aroma, loving
us
faintly.
