Syllables stutter
as they birth from my tongue;
(I'm not sure what to do
with these thoughts,
thrown onto paper
like pagan poetry.)
They swirl in thin air,
trying to find a match
in your eyes.
But still,
my lips gather dust
as words
fail to happen -
I'll take an orchid in my mouth
and let it ripen;
so that its perfume
can draw you a blueprint
of my being.
I'll give you a lily
and hope
it will write you a dictionary,
to manifest the metaphors
I find in us.
And we alliterate with ardor:
my fingers,
forget-me-nots
caressing the curves of your body,
your hands,
the garden in which I reside.













It's not a lady by the way 
my bad..
















. I don't know how i missed this poem because wow!! it is so very beautiful. And the flower metaphors... you know how much I love flower metaphors in poetry, so this poem just speaks right to my core, my friend.

































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