o lover of mine

O lover, you painted the white roses red by the blood of your fragile hands – caressing softly, grazing slowly; wearing out broken pieces of porcelain china. And O lover, I told you once that I never understood what you meant: to sing a song of worship for the forgotten, and then sailing back to homeland.

But O lover, no longer shall we question the universe, and its impeccable desire to gravitate from this push/pull. Come O lover, come forth into this embrace. Fall into this bristling of fallen leaves, and I will drape you with sheer canopies, over, and over, and under, and over, again.

I love you, O lover. And O, I know you do too.
(Happy Valentines)