Love

Neither the electric virus boiling blood up to fever nor the late night craving for a heart emoji and "I mean… this would warrant a reply" and is "a thumbs up the tell tale of the end" and so not the lunar whims of skin tight tides. Love the bench under the oak tree the hot spring muscles give up in and into as though to softer tropics

In the garden of time love is a tree planted in hours its leaves whisper myths to every wind you and I we water on Sundays with sweet verbs and each fruit bears our marrow end-season