Under the clouds of hope I married your kind eyes with the faith of a million flowers bringing back the spring to the wild gardens of my left atrium. I swear I did not know that you were born of rain and alcohol, because every one of your touch could douse the flames your kisses light on my skin. I tried to write more about how every time you said the word βhaloβ, your mouth would curl like a serpent waiting to attack; how your hands always were a warm reminder of thoughtless touching; how your feet are tired from all the walking down flights of a paradox of stairs and still wanting to run away with me.