by Andrew M. Harbach14 Jul 2014
There must be a hyacinth in your hair, because of your essence: a flowers beauty. Of how you appear, my eyes have been soaked in Russian nectar, because a broadened height clips its attention to even the turns you make. A hyacinth of laced straw, frittered wisps in mists of white noise. A background tune muffles the static of galactic spinning, because my world becomes a cropped incandescence of celestial spotlight in which you have stolen center stage. When you waltz into a room, my intention is to remove my cap and lay my lips where they so wish to touch upon your hand.