betrothed
For this blossom of love, times are vague. Language is of colouring books. They are sweetmeats resting in good knowledge of butterflies. She knows her love for him can count up to at least purple and red. He is thinner with her love. Betrothed he says like be-troughed. She wants to go home and cook him breakfast.
*
For this second attempt she wears grey. The season is better now, fragments of blossom in beards and clouds. Everything talks endangered love, language as aphrodisiac. They wear thin garments, flowing shivers. He wears a frightened rose. She can't still the butterflies rummaging in her hair. She finds herself wishing they were home already, his head resting in her lap. Perhaps he is crying quietly.
Wow! LOVE!!
ReplyDeleteThank you for reading.
ReplyDeleteWhen love ceases to be what you want it to be,
ReplyDeleteWhen the butterflies in the stomach stop fluttering at the hope,
but, they renew and make you quieter with dry tears sweeping across your smiling cheek,
What would you do, but let insomnity gradually flow through your veins,
and forget all about aphrodisiacs.