there is a purgatory in between seasons.
these are the days i tempt the breeze to billow below
and sow the sun; tilled in what was touched, and returning again.
the melody on the breeze
the touch of flesh
planted in your embrace.
coy princesses of tease in their compound angle of crack.
the days devour time in a blink and a longing where we wear nature,
and we're under the spell of the moon.
its light, like speed for the Spring born
and flowers with the expectation of bees. honey,
the course without correction.
forgot in the scent of ________.
kisses in the abyss, and above the vermin,
waking to find passion in silence riding the wind
through the tolling bell in your chest.