| Passion Did love exist before you? My devoted center, my all, my One. I have blossomed since the captivation and have transformed into an imperfect butterfly that pleads to fly in your wind. Who writes love poetry anymore? Penning the token is a faulty process. Words cannot express such love. Only the pull of the moon or a gentle mid-morning breeze could express what I feel. Clink glasses, and make a toast to our love and your perfection. Rest assured that neither will fade. Take pleasure in the beatitude and the surrender. Cheers. |