She’s
art’s friend, to muse a soul, and such splendor. I’m
young
for it, a child’s crush, passing petals. I’m stippled
in
it, to swelter love, and symbol love. We pet and pant,
to
walk the brooks, and unbolt life. I touch a brooch, gilted
in
gold, and sing for tender. It’s ever a moment, a chorus
shy,
a relic tear. She speaks a word, for sanctum rich, and
hypnotic
eyes. I fall thunder, a bit idyllic, to hold a palm.
We
quake and move, to print a soul, and picking daisies.
I
utter love, a start too young, to do as they do. We kiss, to
mix
for tongues, awkward in our living. I court and rain,
a
fleet of words, composing prose. “This is us, a spell of
pains,
and heavenly dreams; and this is life, a spell of love,
and
hellish fears.” She swooned, a cosmic ache, to tat a
soul;
and oh for glory, the softest skin, a torrent inrush. I
cried
love, a bit too young, and felt it back. We wrought a
fire,
to float a kite, drunk off apricots. Our world, a
mother’s
tear, a father’s fear. It was dreams, to outgrow
years,
a dazzling pain. I had a crush, to rush through
woods,
to carve for love. We grew to perish, fully dressed,
the
months for change; and still a love, peering and peeking
life.
