I should know what you've done, because every time you did it, you did it me. More times than I can count when I left with regret. More times than I can say when I remembered your name. But not many words between us need to be spun because our private language is an anomaly when I tear away the parts that I'd rather forget while you insist my weakness is yours to claim.
All is beauty and perfection in the muted hours when the dark illuminates what you're ashamed to display. Though I still...
I awoke on a dewy morning, still enclosed, shuddering and fearful of nature's breath. Yet rain and breezes cooled my stems and brought upon a refreshing caress to open the blooms I deemed unsightly. And no longer desiring a life of enclosure, I turned at last to face the sun, to wash my face with light and air, and stand amongst the breathing flora as a creature of boundless radiance, refusing to be muted by the shade of trees, nor to be trampled by careless feet, alive at last in my perpetual Spring.
White knight on a horse with a mission to ravage, spouting saccharines with force like some valiant candy savage But how fortunate for you, this naive flower with no luck; Sir knight wolf-eyed for the bloom, eager for a valiant pluck.
The days have brought out merciless suns and our faces bathe in punishing heat, so I anticipate the eventual fall of the burning star, and evening's call, the starlight weave the night has spun above the outlines of our feet.
Sleep casts its spell on you again, your face speaks of hushed peace; what a shame you can't see the silver-painted beauty of the moon glancing upon you when your cheeks are aglow with smiling peaks.
I'd watch you sleep forever and a day, and picture all your dancing dreams, because...
and I'm a sucker for a man with an aching pen and a knack for ink and wordplay, so I let him use me as his empty page to scribe electric words on my fluid body and skin that left me writhing in absolute numbness, euphoria, from words crafted by the breath of his imaginative lips, leaving volumes and volumes of the melting hours, in perfect synchronicity with his body vernacular, till no inch of me was left unwritten, as he smirked at his speechless, gasping masterpiece.