open your notebook.
read the throbbing of our love.
an odd gesture warmed up your tone,
as you tumbled down on a dried flower,
that pursued a peacock feather,
that lay in an endless hypnosis.
a tremor passes
through your frail fingers
to your encircled bosom,
beneath which those throbbing were heaving:
'it never bore any fragrance! '
you were about to fling it away,
as its shrunken petals whispered:
'i'm a dried flower,
foresaken by my talent,
but dipped in thoughts of wounds
that scratched our breasts,
as we fell on the sprawling playground.'