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.