To love is to feel alive, as for I am the envious weed in your garden. My vines seep through your soils, creeping over your roots. They sprawl out and over, under and yonder. A fustrage with each inch I take. I erupt your livelihood, to take the tears you weep. As you cry, I cry with you; a crude symbiosis. My leaves carnage, a toothy grin grows wirily. To be in sorrow is to be in torment, my thorns twisting and straining against themselves.
Yet you grew anew once again, no matter how many times the petals are snipped. As for you are the flower and I am the weed. I am to rid, you get to stay; you get your way, and I must go away… Why must it be YOU? I could do more than a flower could ever. You laze upon the soil, your petals are an awe-ful to the human eye. The hands of love graze you so gently, cupping your pot with a sincerity that I could only ponder.
His eyes so lovingly grow at the sight of you, so enlarged, you can see your own reflection. To be in the void of his space, he idles you as a star. To know you are loved, he keeps you at bay… But tenderness sanctioned of two, more than a human could ever provide.
Taken into the arms of another, enwrapped by a warmth yearning to comfort. To be worshipped by your lover as she melts into a bow. To be kissed and overwhelmed by her desperation, just so you're overcame with love. Perfection is a fragile thing, to achieve it is to turn you into glass. No matter how many boulders you overtake, no matter how many times you drowned to suffer, her hands laid upon you so achingly sweet. Handled as glass, a sculpture to preserve, her honeyed fingers cup at your cheek to rest your weary head. If you yearn for more, she is delighted to bless you more, over and over until the early dawn perverts through your window. And then to wake up with her sunkissed face, envy blots your thoughts. Your own hands jolt with covetiveness, qualm a hallucination that you dream improper.
But you have not been chastised by Him. While endorsed, you are not stricken with a blasphemest crime. You hold her with resolve, your chest swoons steadfast, as she is here and you are hers. The snooty sun enlightens your room, revealing the revalous fever. You are entangled with warmth that adorns you, the nest messied of her adoration. Your mess stained the sheets, splattered with reeking pearls. Shunning the spots that could paint your legs, you've met with frustration. Her warmth, lukewarm; you ache to chain yourself to the embrace. But as she is glory, inherited a kindness just for you, beckons to your sulking.
You cloaked and soaked your impurity, and it had seemed you reset the clock to yesterday. Refusing to conform to modesty, you lay disrobed. Time can wait for the both of you, it leaped without you enough. The sun slowly slid by. A silence reserved for two, a comfortable blanket weighing the both of you down. Yet, your snide mind made you think, the drug of love wears the oppression off. Yet, it had made a point that weaned you off your high. You have been dearly placed into a capsule to be adored, to be admired, but all you've done is to greedily bury yourself in the hoard of her fondness.
Not the weed you have declared, but you are her star in the soothing sea of her eyes, and to shine is to give, to be admired you must have a greatness deemed worthy. You overtake the employment of your blankets, wrapping around her as if she were a gift. Her hair, soft as fur of a stuffed plush, idling by to pet. She has a landscape of her own for you to explore, dips and grooves met by your hands grows a vault of warmth; treasure only for two. To be loved is to be endowed in greatness; to love, a coaxing to work for, but the rewards are worth greater… A shrill mellow enough to mercy your ears, yet it sparks within you. Two stars shine, bathed in another's light. They strive as two, you and her. Forever more, evermore, until the end of time.
