Before the Gates of Rapture
You linger, bowed intently before the gates of rapture. With furrowed brow, you fervidly chant for a butterfly to dance within the shadow of your affection. Cascading wings of torrid dreams elude your grasp in the garden of your love. And so she flutters, gracefully alighting here and there, flitting about the offerings of fragrant petals that you bring. O’ to commit the sin of lightly brushing her sweet tint against your skin . . . her flight has been too long.