What glory has been given to you, milady. You have arched the peak of the summit of perfection, and have lunged back into the world so cold, so still, so numb. And a smile that protrudes from your face leaves the world shining a bit brighter and the grasses a bit greener; oh, then, what comes to be of the one who follows your lead?
Hello, there: For I am here. And I can see your eyes meeting mine. It is the connectivity that makes it all happen. It is all there, in a blizzard, in a hurricane, in a monsoon of the summer trenches. Such a divine thing you are. Imperfections not to be aware of, as the sun will glide away into the sunset leaving the moon’s eerie shadows upon your porcelain face—
—which face will, in turn, produce a smile never before seen through the human eyes. Sheer power/sheer glory. And the victor of the departed sun are my eyes, who have slid up to encompass your being in my peripheral vision. It is the crashing lights of the melancholy daze that has befallen upon the world, and that same daze has now been lifted: If only for a while.
You have come across as a shocking pink dilemma in the eyes of the beholder, for everyone who lays their eyes upon you become infatuated (Oh, what a dilemma!). But as the tear drops and the butterflies fly into the sun as it once again rises in the corners of our eyes, the glimmer of hope that you shall come down from Mount Olympus and take old Prometheus in your arms still remains. And the clock ticks; and the clock tocks; and my mind goes ablaze with thoughts of intuitive romanticism: Oh, what a tearing of the ground in the soil! How time shall stand so still for once: Not leaving me behind, not getting ahead of me! And shall my soul strike the esoteric melody of my heart when I do feel your skin upon the side of my hands, for the flesh abides by nature’s law.
And there really is not another place I would rather be, another thing I would rather do, another thing I would rather feel.
And that is when I know it; that is when I fly away to the stars with you.