You press your fingers into my side.

Slow stroll, no immediate destination,
Which is deemed good.
My mood elevates slowly,
Gradual, yet violent in every neuron,
Raising flags with your name.

The sweet smell of cinnamon and your peach perfume burn my nose.

Five month interval,
Before: Six month,
Prior: Sixteen years.
The buffer period makes me wonder,
If your idea even existed then.

Brother and sister,
We laugh at lovers.

We laugh out of time,
Out of tune,
Out of love and peace and whatever made you so sweet?
Make sure to visit soon,
okay kid?