Arranging Flowers

He didn’t carve initials
in that oak tree we lay beneath,
but, we tasted syllables.
rolling off the tongue,
from his lips to mine
and back again,
quenching our thirst
with the juice of poetry
dripping down pink curves;
fingers finding metaphor
within tangled limbs-
searching for alliteration
in a handful of wildflowers;
breaths meeting
in the middle
of love’s sentence

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