(no subject)
Love,
The opening of this bud has been slow,
Like molasses,
Warm as summer,
A sweetness,
The very thought of which,
Brings a relaxed grin to my face,
The drone of distant cars along quiet roads,
Sound hushed in the twilight of October,
As the hum of mosquito voices,
Call out in the night,
Eager to gorge themselves,
To be fat and plump,
On the juices of there livelihood,
Though they know the one thing they need most to survive,
Could be the very death of them,
How surprisingly easy,
The graze of your fingers,
Made the walls I had fortified for years,
Crumble,
Dissolved like sugar cubes in water,
And the hairs on my arms,
stand
on
end,