Each time I blink, you’re the afterimage I see.
True beauty, wrapped in the
cloth of essence, held upon your body by seraphs.
When trumpets blare, the streets are
flooded by archetypical lovers, their
bodies in unison with the music filling the cool air,
masks shrouding their identities from everyone around them.
The truest of masquerades.
Within an impulse, my heart removes
from within, which you, in turn,
place inside a box, of which
is written a description, a map of our lives
from the moment we first affixed to each other.
Our own storybook.
Tales of epic struggle, cohabiting
with stars crossing through the Heavens,
guiding me to you, my Juliet.
For it is not death, but every rise of
the sun and fall of the moon
that brings me closer to my deepest ambition.
To spend the remainder of these festivals with you.