"Will you marry me?”
whispered her sly slivers of purple,
prestige and occasional lie five years later.
And had we not been asunder
that very same altar we’d sought fallen stars on
several days prior, I’d have said, “no.”
Sure, she’d brought a bounty oranges,
but could he, if ever, answer with the hand
that’d waived like the incense before?
He said “yes.”
— The End —