Portrait of Perfection

The bird was busy,
Building a nest inside her head.
As she painted with newfound colours,
Outlining his unfinished story.
The mirror bore fruits of their love.
Unconscious kisses and oneness of soul,
He feathered through her tousled pages.
She stared lovingly at his blinding void.
He drew in her aroma of evening.
She sung in his memories of morose.
Together they made the moon blush golden,
Together they tasted the yellows and sorrows.
He fell asleep onto her abstract,
She woke up amidst his dreams.
The maple leaves journeyed through winters…
And the portrait is complete, it seems.


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