"Bride style", I say.
Carry me to the bed
Like you would your forever love.

I remember feeling delicate
And safe.
My cheeks were pink and flush
And I could feel your warmth
On every inch of me.

You told me my hair smelled like jasmine.

Closer.
Let me be warm
By your fireplace chest.
Give me the sweetness
Of your collarbone kisses.
Let me sleep, hidden
In your safe arms.

I will be the rich earth
You plant your strawberry kisses in.
I will be the salty waves
You go to when you need peace.
I will be the roots in the soil
From which you can grow strong
And tall.
And I will be love.

I'm told that the right kind of love
Is the kind filled with passion.
But to not lose my head to my heart?
Oh if only.
Passion
Can be exhausting.

Chrysanthemum,
Rose,
Buttercup.
Each morning he would guess a floret that might match
Her loveliness.
And every night,
When he pulled her close under
Periwinkle sheets
He would admit defeat.
"Of course how foolish I've been!
No Chrysanthemum can compete
With the way your velvet lips flood pink
After I kiss you, my love.
Not even the brightest rose
can compare to the sunshine
that pours from your soul
every day, my darling."

This year
I am green and new and certain.
I am warm and pink,
Deep and soft as your crimson kisses.  
Bold as the spring wind gracing my open arms.