If I were a flower I’d be a rose.
So ready for themes of love it sheds it weight in time.
“She loves me, she loves me not.”
Petal by petal I give away until I’m simply thorns.
First love. So sweet it hurts like a cavity of the soul.
Her smile so bewitching I gave it all to the unknown.
The feeling of driving to paradise on earth.
Beauty empowering me closer to the illuminating picture on the post card.
Vacationing in her warmth.
One by one, cloud by cloud the blue skies slowly wilted a gray.
I sway, hand in hand, in melancholic bliss waiting for a rainbow to split the clouds looming over.
No cover, adoration of the ever consuming rain gives hopeless fodder.
Consumed in gluttony of thine own sabotage.
Meddling; criminally in the poetic justice of one single word.
Love.
If only I told her that.
She was my Mona Lisa.
Da Vinci knew that beauty was not his possession, but the world’s to see.
Subject to a story of myth.
Lifted higher than icarus so I may learn how to fall; down.
Deeper, fallen into an abyss by the shot of cupids arrow.
Greeted by only a sign at the entrance reading “lost and found.”
A place in time existing only for lovers whose hearts wander off to the slaughter.
The unexplainable phenomena.
Wandering hopelessly until an improbable yet possible collision sets us back on course.
My lovely Andromeda to be.
A gift of fire I wish to collide with once more.