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In our imagination, we danced on Saturn's  rings,
swallowing stardust and all other galactic things,
creating galaxies with the colliding of our lips,
accompanied by the harmonies of our hips.

The twinkling stars beneath your feet caress you gently,
the moon bears witness to this moment and hums tenderly.
I watched as your body moved in such a hypnotic motion,
my love increased and so did my devotion.

The unique conversations between our souls transcends the greed of flesh,
I crave the music your lips play,
I resonate with the nuances in your breath.

You captured me like the moonlight was captured in your eyes.
One of my less haunting and beautiful poems. I feel as though there's something missing. Maybe the moon will tell me what it is tonight.
The moon sings to the crimson red flower, to bloom at midnight hour. Harmonizing with the pale lover's song, with languid movements of her own. Curling her blossoms, shaking her leafs — being as pretty as can be.

I watch as the rose gives itself to the moon, to luminescent light and angelic tune.
And while I lay in your arms, your glory bequeathed with a laurel wreath, our love promised with a diamond ring, I realize that the rose and I might just be the same thing.
Inspired and dedicated to the one that makes my dew-covered eyelashes flutter with happiness upon waking up next to them. My muse. My love.
Crimson God of love, tanning in the pale Moonlight, made my mind split asunder, when you and I locked eyes.

Doomed was I just then, writing love letters hastily with my pen, surrendering to the divinity whose lips tasted like the wine of ancient rome, and whose flowered ribcage became my very home.
Quite frankly I'm very new to the rhyming in regards to my poetry, but I'm not too mad about it. Yet.

— The End —