Only time will tell, residue of longing, luscious, on the edge of lower lip is truth, is fallaciousness, chained in curiosity or is merely an illusion— your lambent green eyes generate a slight intake of breath and before I could realize, I lost track of time. Come, strip the night of indecision, sometimes we just let it slip away— this love of mine is as old as the hills, cutting deep into poetry that sings, I suppose it makes sense considering I see your name and say it softly out loud; silvered, like the moon even the smallest traces of you make me radiate, make me glow,
you say I leave lipstick notes without a care in the world— only time will tell.
What more can be said that raises a faint blush on, embers of wanting smolder marmalade-like over a pair of brown eyes, copacetic these clouds murmur not a thought, not a kiss, nor a glance is forgotten– your beauty akin to a cream rosebud, to winter sunshine illuminating the trees.
What more can be said that molds the heart with such strangeness, the crescent itself seethes when I utter your name and I, seeing through pretense smile I plead pardon for having my breath perfumed—
Darkly whispering the underworld beckons, I gaze upon the flowers pinned between rocks sprouting deep purple, the violet being one to address blood consciousness. To repudiate living darkness that exists in one’s soul would be ideal, I thought to myself as I rise from dreams unreal; I bury my face in the wild storm of your being.
There is faith in the fog, I cannot see the ground and yet I tread further into the abyss of the unknown, let lips decide the distance between us love, I have witnessed many a February cold— come,
weave foolishness into my heart; it’s perfectly easy, every atom
belonging to me as good
belongs to you; what more can be said that raises a faint blush on.
Brooding, the faint slender crescent living with ache and no serious sins perhaps a memory surfaces to a mirrored abyss reaching but never truly grasping– I press my finger against the subtle breath of the East, feel its presence the churning chaos of scars long lost and forgotten, I say they evaporate or how else could I even walk on this part of the colonnade? Nearby, flowered and craving for a moment of rest. On quiet nights, in the absence of dreams, I breathe your name there are moments when vulnerability overwhelms— sliver-tongued it makes us believe unerring safety, a recherché calm and everything comes gushing out; while I, betrayed by evidence of my body’s reaction seethe, feeling no different than the crescent, than the wordless bewilderment of the East— how foolish.