The taste of old memories lingers in it until the bitter end;
That reflection of his eyes when he smiles,
And the sound of his breath in your ear.
It’s the recollection that things aren’t always right,
But they’ll be fixed by in the spring.
Sometimes, it’s the sickness that clings to the skin,
Entrenching all in it’s neverending-ness...
Soft and lush beneath worn hands,
Sprawling above it and below,
Comfort is encapsulated in every fold that runs
Straight through it’s veins, entwining;
Straight through like vines, inviting.
This smell of summer that writes itself up and down
Script and Italics across the borderlines
Between fantasy and perfection.