Brushstrokes of magic fill the silence that
Sings soft, raspberry red in the space where
Your fingertips meet mine. There we once sat,
Drunk on dreams while reason was unaware.
Deliriously we hummed to the sweet
Summer’s sugar coated breeze. Juice of ripe
Ambrosia on our lips - whose ember’s heat
Left me in want of your embrace, a type
That sets colors ablaze, tickles them to
Dance the waltz that drips of lost metaphors
Who whisper Aphrodite’s word in queue.
But all too abstract were such ’evermore’s
And unto time I bore the grand touché,
For her constraint forced the edges to fray.