FLORAISON
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FLORAISON
It’s like a page out of a classic,
Of lazy summer afternoons
And hazy rainy days.
There’s flour in our hair
And love in our laughter,
Our sorry cupcakes burn in the oven.
And when the laundry loads,
The vinyl plays behind us,
As we slow dance to jazz and blues.
And against the teal walls,
We put up the gaudy yellow bookshelf,
Misshapen, scuffed, yet sturdy;
It’s a bit of us.
“It’s a date!”
While we wine and dine
On cheap beer and corndogs.
There’s a click of a shutter
And a new polaroid weaved through string lights.
It’s a cosy bubble of ours
Hidden from the prejudices of the world,
Like a pressed wildflower
Once of rain and sunshine,
Faded between the pages of Austen and Keats.
Tomorrow, today
Like Icarus with his burnished wings
I feel like soaring to the skies with you.
It’s only minutes to midnight.
You, of my dreams,
Take my hand and let’s waltz,
Under the red moon and the city of stars.
The window box blooms violet and blue.
Anahi