He
swelters, to swell with love, swimming love. She watches,
to
witness pash—morph into wildness. They love sighted, to
hope
for rapture, a rapid rush. He waxes richly, a well of woes,
and
ever for honor. Every token a movie, a mental maze,
married
at nineteen. They live it fiction, a world of trinkets.
He
pauses traffic. She crosses slowly. They laugh and die
together.
He found a picture, to strike for jealously, a blue
eyed
dove. She ranted for raving, to railroad for pressure. He
vowed
for perfect, a love for sutures. She wrecked an evening,
to
knit a knight, screaming for kicking. They paint this way,
and
dearly unveiled. She knows for love, a pearl of love, to
waken
love. He treasures amore, and ever for more. They morph
harshly,
to dance gently, watching for growth. Such is nuance,
to
reckon a new love, embodied in a wife. This is growth, to
mold
as strangers, as familiar as apple pie. He muses art. She
cruses
minds. They come together like vows. Each are phantoms,
chasing
a sanctum. Oh for hearts, beating pressures, alive at last.
She
poses his brush, and only his eyes, a portrait on a wall. He
takes
for notes, a subtle conference, to speak for love.
