February 14th

My cheeks are flushed pink, a rosy hue, but don’t compare them to flowers. Flowers die; cosmetic blush does not fade until you stop applying it to tear drenched cheeks, rebirthing the lilting of lips, the biting of a cheek, the giggle of a smile. Breath meeting air. Honeysuckle apples always seem so sweet, don’t bite them! Eve’s folly is no fairness and flushed pinks turn to pale petunias when merged with drops of water, the river curving away from romantic sentiments, shapeshifting into flushed fall’s leaves that turn to pieces in the wind if you blow your lover away. Here and now, rosy cheeks are fairest reminders, we can rest thumb on thumb another day.