His flower blooms in the wind,
Blossoming each direction the wind blows.
Gracefully tucked in the curled petals of self love, Her love.
His flower is innocent, Her petals lingering with the aroma of her lips.
Devoured by the breeze that swoops pass. Engulfed in passion,
His flower. Her love. Her lips.
His flower exuberantly intellectual.
Her stem a temple of spiritual delight, the way she sways, his flower.
Her leaflets drenched with infatuation, Her love is mute.
A bold splash of violet that speaks louder than any word.
There isn't a perfume sweeter than her fragrance.
The bees that loom around in circles, inebriated from such intoxication.
They fall short of her love, Her lips, his flower.
The thought of her lingers.
Humbling itself at will, he submits to her, his flower.
Mesmerized by such beauty, gentle, soothing.
He longs to be the water his flower needs to grow.
Her love