What are you thinking, with your lips petal-parted?
Gossamer hues transfused in to a sun-soothed visage.
Beautiful lady, inhilation of five score years and eight-
Surely, deeply a crescendo of loving memory.
Of whom do you think as you caress your delicate bloom with one hand,
The other bearing the weight of both body and imaginings?
Do you seek to prolong forever a time-sealed tryst, or
does your palm seek thorns to bring you sharply home?
I seek no answer.
Breathe ever in and on.
You, in your eternal rising look for no culminations.
Why then should I? Endure.