He
longs for love, to capture each moment, lost in paradox.
Love
is a conduit, to flood a soul, as pristine as joy. Love,
too,
is a ballad, recited by moonlight. His eyes are wolves,
ripples
of lust, to capture each moment. Words are
vehicles,
particles of holy water, even passion’s elixir.
He
pauses, to capture beauty, to listen keenly. It’s ever
a
woman’s voice, to open windows, a keyboard of melodies;
but
it’s more a dialogue, a thunderstorm of verbs, a telegram
for
love. He watches softly, to capture nuance, a sun to
burst.
There’s a stream, fraught with undertow, where beauty
sits
aflame. He spoke courtly, as opposed to friendly, where
hell
ensued. She plays in silt, collecting rocks, as nuanced as
beige
pigeons. He wants for more, a choir of nouns, found
in
raindrops. How to court needless, to kindle flame, two
infractions
in? Love is testy this way, a needed epiphany, to
trespass
quietude. He dared to journey, to pause in stillness.
She
looked, to break a smile, calm to nurture a river.
