I still want the fairytale, the impossible. The most beautiful of perfumed blooms in every room. The moss stained clothing, the dents in the grass where we’d lay for hours just because we could…..

The wisteria covered archways that flower like silent fireworks and fade as fast. The poets hands around my waist, his words dripping from my spine. Hands that know my every flaw yet cherish them as perfection.