would you run your fingers through my hair once more?
wash over me like an august rain
relieving me of the oh so cruel drought
i have cast upon myself

I'm am utterly abashed
I so badly want to be filled with fury
but I cannot
as you always
and forever
will be my sweet evanescent orange
not yellow
even though some may think
because yellow is simple
easy some might even say
orange is rough and allusive
it is filled with a desire so pure
hidden between many layers of said skin
passionate
intense
stubborn
but also soft
and dulcet
not pliable in any way shape or form

Orange queries
she asks
"why"
why?
because I fell in love with you
and then I fell in love with life
before it was dull
to mask the bitter
but citrus is not bitter,
even out of season
it is bittersweet.

So I pray you won't break your promise a second time
because this time
I cannot follow you
because now I find myself relishing the bittersweet of life that rests on my tongue.

With, or without your grace.

My sweet evanescent orange
although it has been a quiescent season, our time seems to be running short
As you happen to be a seasonal delight
and although our dalliance has been lovely
it has not been one of moiety
I will miss your
rough skin
dulcet taste
and your slender intricate eyes like that of a flickering leaf
Your bittersweet words had a redulcent undertone,
puzzling,
in the most delightful way
but as examine said parcel of citrus before me
I find a scintilla droplet of lament
for I do not wish for this season to end
I am mindful that it would be quite stingy of me to ask you to obtain till next season
for I do not hold possession of your bucolic tree
nor do I know if there will be a following season
So for the time being I will refrain from harboring jealousy of others who admire you
for although I nurtured and paid homage to this Sinensis tree
I am aware
that I am but a visitor
sitting under a grand opulent tree
enjoying your sweet taste
while we are still in season

How enticing her flames must be
that even after I am deformed with burns
I always come back
no longer ignorant of the pain
but just as enticed by the flames
as to run my fingers through her flickering hair once more
scorching them

or
discarding stitches
as I graze her soft fervent cheek

for shock eases the pain into warmth
and when I am to be burned at the stake
It won't be the ropes that restrain me
you hold me tight and whisper
"stay."
and I will
and I do
even as my comrades call from beyond the flames
you squeeze my hand
and I discard them like dry grass

For when the fumes fill my lungs
I grin
my breath weary
her lips on mine
sparing just enough air to continue

Our saving grace
now leaves me with a perplexing taste of hiraeth in my mouth
In our moment of need, we clung to it
although simple
and dashingly ordinary
we wouldn't be here without it
but now that it inches toward its inevitable end
I am filled with bitter nostalgia
one of empty promises
for even when our season was ending
I cared for you nonetheless
I clung to your ruminating sweet taste
for even when your newfound thorns engulfed me
I held on
watering jug in hand
and laid my eyes on your grand opulent tree
just as fondly as before

Now we are back in season
but my hands have grown rough and weary from the thorns of yesterday
your once dulcet taste
repulses me
for the taste of my blood is surprisingly pungent.

I just wish I could kiss you one last time
for I know what must be done.

A kiss goodbye
not to you
but to this feeling,

because if I don't part with this feeling my love
it will be you I'm kissing goodbye.

How come we are only lovers in the dark?
No sight is needed for we know every crevasse,
every curve,
recognizable by the very touch of a finger
and yet

"love is blind"
but what if it is only blind?
What if the night holds fits of passions,
but those very affections depart with the rising sun?
The facade beginning once again with daylight herself

Our love is blind by choice
Eyes gouged by the very hands we hold
We feel the warmth of each others touch,
at the cost of our very senses.

yestereve we succame
A lengthy ballad of longing
formerly one of obstinance
flared in a cacophony of passion

Whilst usually twirling in a seemly epitome fashion,
yestereve a caprice thought laid heavy on hearts
as there was no doubt of desire
nor were there objections to her
for even when my affections consumed you
lady desire was just an inexorable

yestereve she picked petals from a Sinensis blossom
there went the pain
any semblance of grudge
along with sanity
reason
and lastly, walls as carefully constructed as that of Pyramus and Thisbe's
such vulnerability unmatched
for your sweet scent lulled me from the arms of reason
for reason, although safe,
is the most intricate and fragile part of the ballad
and the first to fall victim to the cascade

What a fool I must be to have gladly forgotten the kinks of your hands
or the freckles on the back of your neck that form a perfect triad.
The way your upper lip curls when you grin
made my glissade blissful and passionate
Your flustered twirl
the very epitome of aubade

Ignorant of the harsh retombe of reality
Your flustered face En L'air
Every touch a pleasant surprise that formed a grand symphony

A moment of unfiltered emotion
A heavenly ballad
so cruelly of yestereve.

It was most boastful of me to assume that I could be the one to fill your cup
to assume that no other flower could fulfill you in the same manner
who am I to assume that we don't look just as lovely in a vase
and who are you to compare a rose to a carnation?
one whose grace is affiliated with beauty itself
and another that bumbles clumsily along like that of a lost bee
in every flower pressed,
in every poem composed
I seem to grow more tired of describing this ephemeral love
I continue to saudade in pursuit of moiety
leaving myself in a state of perpetual hireath
but in full honesty, I don't mind you switching me out for rose here and then
though I can't help but ponder
if she holds the same warmth in your arms
as one does in mine
and as to whether or not I will always be a stand-in for the next lovely rose to come

-a blissfully ignorant stand-in, a carnation