Ambrosial Afterglow

T i m e ~ you are the spark that tips the scales of lovestruck heartbeats, ricocheting glyphs of fairness, etched with gold and silver. Yet seasons of smoke fail to trace the unexpressed emotions woven with ultraviolet beams. Perhaps the ticking truth of intoxicated haze, is a resonance of pained pulses: a poem without a title, a sonnet without a rhyme, a melody without a rhythm, a palette without a dream, cosmically tied, yet torn by space, pondering: what if these implicit metaphors heal the beautifully bruised, paint the scars with flares of serenity, turn bleeding wounds into sterling specks, and draw hope with swirling sunflowers? As I am a wordless wanderer, facing the heat of sultry skin within starlight, tasting the milky flickers of quartz as they seep into the warm arms of blushing twilight. These fingers curate chronicles from archaic archives, scintillating souvenirs, like a forest library with shimmering shelves touched by sunlit rays and mauve memories merging with evening mists. For I am the mistress of your amethyst afterglow, engrossed in the ambrosial luminescence of soft-spoken verses, as alluring auroras emanate burning thistles of thirsting galaxies~ the delicate dews of dancing diamonds caressing the silk of stars to drizzle one last drop of your pining poetry, while I await the return of Romeo’s rhapsody, like Juliet on the tantalizing tip of throes, counting Cupid's jewels of nightfall, wishing upon the dusk of craving. For in your absence, I am but a poet with no abstract speech, but doleful desires, longing to kiss the final phase of Luna’s sigh catching crooning comets, lost in the hypnotic moon-gaze of immortal love...