dear love,
a sweetheart dressed in the shade of a dove,
innocent and flushed rose i am in your white robe,
so far i'm waltzing and tangoing on your globe,
ivory silk adorns me gingerly,
is it so delicate that on my skin it feels bitterly?
for i'm stained in the watercolours of your synergy,
a silhouette unused to the garments you offered me tenderly.
your lips murmur phrases of yellow and emerald,
and though thy appear dishevelled,
it's my predicament that tonight we are in a novel of Fitzgerald,
so collect your thoughts in an image assembled—
assembled by you
or so i knew
for thy used my emotions' glue
to put together the fiction of an imagination blue.
