Storyboards: On a love which is, by definition, intrinsic

This brightness which we can't contain

The finest stitch these hands have made

A single inch remarkable against

A mouth of darkened histories, swallowing whole

All but our present tense, as of late

Your irises, they illustrate the pattern—

Subtle movements I read and mock

Where passion becomes Choreographer;

Where flesh is passed from palm to palm—

Of rare, as pure, commodity

Fairly offered as being, otherwise, obsolete

Under discretion of those not so elite

Amongst the sewn strategies

Of Pearl-Wallflower and Right-Hand-Soldier symphonies

Wherein studies conducted, on consensus constructed

By creases written upon inlets framing your cheeks

Illuminating moments otherwise unscripted—

Being conscious that hollow memory unfolds bleak or empty—

And occupy the sympathy of what employed to a Circadian

(Insecure in its until-then-impertinent) Rhythm

Though magnified, and burning

Through fury of fortune's adoring eye

Strung like those flavoured-Undaunted, coloured-Rose

Melodies gentle; they peruse your tongue and expend themselves—

The most aesthetic of awed monologue human ears have held—

To stand or waltz along my senses, proud not of the words

But sudden intention for their dance,

And such poetics being intrinsic—by elucidation's very object, procured

Each come and craft that void where we couldn't remain,

Under massive foisting of disenchantment engraved,

Now, at middle seam, has split; spilt in to Miracles' garment fragments

Which found pause in the soft activity and warmth of our souls

That what inflates then indents our wrists with evidence

Of hardly-passive Heart-rates