How many times
would I return
in an attempt to be the storm
that claims your heart as an abode
on a day which no longer exists

How many
to create my earth
in subtle grooves upon your back
until the seeds of every kiss
begin to live, feeling your motive
and your warmth

How many
to reclaim the fruits
of tender mornings gone
contrary to the wind as whispers
from your lips

How many before the storm's
inevitable retreat
leaving only white flags
white flags in bloom
ceding to time
as scars
and beauty marks

And how many more
would I return
before the clouds break
in the sun

I do not know