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as the moon's ivory luster smooches my crafted pieces, it shall glint further the sheen of doting which i've been shading each and every one of them with—the ardor which flourished within me on account of your marble orbs billeting a ceaseless ocean of constellations, your hitherto pallid lips which now are the shade of cranberries and bent upwards upon the presence of mirth and comfort, as well as your soft prayers which soar me above a bliss of confectionery from their sweetness. these, my parted mouth can sing about endlessly beneath the notes of black and white tiles. these, my frail fingers can convey upon a white tarpaulin with the aid of teal and violet dyes; but not a confession penned upon an enveloped billet-doux. ୨୧ ₊˚
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