I am short of vocabulary. Of myself perhaps. I want to write an unwritten post to send to an unexplored address. Just that the idea of handwritten thoughts is too old-fashioned.
Love does what mild sun does to cherry blossoms. Between the toes of soft flesh, two tear drops wet the skin. Between the space of white nothings, flowers smiled and fragrance wafted. Love did what it does, long when warmth ceased in the August sun.
To miss the mornings and the evenings and the nights is to make them stay while one so wishes time to fly. I wish to scratch the surface of the water that settles after rain and feel the film as it cools the pools in the pockets of the earth one treaded. I wish to feel the winter warmth in the musky mist of minted memories, meanwhile.
Cosumed with poesy, one confesses of love - lyrical, lilting love. The stained ink of ego, the blotches of pain all over the ruins, mounds of pen-seived sunshine, all - each of them - whisper a wish. Meanwhile, the sun shines through your hair. Leaving the finger of this night, a leaf escapes my hair.
Press my veins deeper for this mirror is embossed with your face.....
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