You’re
a miracle sprouting—an informal dream, tugging at sentiments. I space out at
times, this fountain of daydreams, as pouring into a fantasy. You exhaust love,
to unfetter love, this bold mystery of love. I wanted for something, to ask
your pain, as you replied with tears. We blend daiquiris, this metaphor of
tempers, surging for merging into a whirlwind. We’ve tasted fruits, as reaching
for fruits—this bowl of pressures; for love is a dream, cast upon souls, as
vast as suffering. You inspire faiths, to undo science, as creative as love. I
pull us closer, this verbal exchange, as for sculpting dreams; to chance this
angst, thereto this heart, adrift a millennia. It hurts to love, for moods are
arts—this portrait of music; as born too soon, as treasuring ethics, as born
with morals; where life molded tendencies, this inner violin—this mental harp.
I tire of doubts, as showing expressions, to which, you address. It must be
love—this unsettling affect, to purchase for two. I love your body, an
extension of genes, as born of mind; to flourish this passion, this magnificent
dream, combing our visions. Its sheer enchantment—this internal sphere—this
world of oil paintings. Orchids are singing. Puppies are nursing. Our angels
are rejoicing. This is life—a series of petals, imprinted by love; as born to
perish, as born to resurrect, as nurtured by roots; to have us love, this pair
of deer eyes, this internal opiate. I love us more, as days become passions, as
dreams concretize. Its outward aspirations—chaotic order—this melodic dirge; as
sad with meaning, as love is ocean deep, as pains travel minds. It must be
us—for souls have changed, in favor of eternity. We opted for us, an eyelash to
a pore, a finger to a nail, a wrist to an arm.
