The vinyl stick drags in awe
When you walk in the room, there's you
With a smile akin to a firefly or maybe two.
You are a happenstance, weighing in gold
Time on the adversity of a tragic moment,
You are fourteen lines of purity in sonnets.
The smell of roses on your shirt, forms shapes
On prickly stems, that hits me like a gentle peck
Of an ice-cream of wintry summer flecks.
You wear tecoma bracelets on your wrists,
Your skin is sweeter; no spine shivers on the street
And I treat forty nine degrees as a festival tryst.
As far as smiles bring on cyclones,
You are the kind of earthquake on low frequency,
But the tremors of the twitch of the lips create cracks.
The vinyl record restarts, as you exit the room,
I'm perhaps melancholic in a childish fashion, and
I'll wait for you with roses in hopes of your bloom—