growing pleasures

What feeds this love and in what does it grow, to blossom with such ease? Blood and tissues of the heart seem a likely soil, though somehow ill-equipped to alone contain the forces rising – those that would in time exhaust all marrow from our bones. It may then also take root in some unknown, intangible dimension, blooming simply to the beauty in your eyes (which if you ever ask, will be my answer). Yet truly, I know it mostly grows in what I lack, though you are blessed with in abundance – patience, grace, need, and acceptance of my grossly mortal body.

And within this love we ourselves continue to grow as the animals we are, but in practice I still consider you a flower. Although you do not smell of roses, lilies, jasmine or any others I have compared you to, I have never wished otherwise. Instead you bravely wear the truest scent, that of circumstance – natural and ever-changing, a product of your location, your movement, and the state of your body at any given moment.

And although you do not splay the pristine pigments and crisp shape of a well-watered flower in full bloom, you’ve garnered a body of impossibly complex beauty – stretched and toned by your pushings against and flowings with all that exists around you. Set even the most wilted blossom in your hair and you will still be fair (and darest I say, the fairest).