Sapphirism

  oh, to be a wind spirit. my lithe form flutters through the chimes that tinkle in a glass house on a mound. we are but tiny soldiers of clay and fire, baked and painted little toys, when forgotten, lifeless. fallen leaves rustle, only  to become laden with the weight of time and be buried forever. to be the little sprite stealing  in between broken columns and blades  of grass and throats of sparrows  in a nurturing tree. to be an imperceptible shift, the inconsequential whisper in a crowd of voices that want to leave their mark.

i’ve only ever seen tulips on stock pictures and good morning messages. but your two lips i see everyday, those perennially sweet lips whether glistening or dry, in mirth or in sorrow, sometimes bitten in shyness or contemplation. i want to bite them too. i want your teeth to bump into mine, clinking as we ration the air between us. my tongue your lip liner, my eyes your mirror, my face, your canvas. i want to surrender my inhibitions  and let you make an impact on me: mark me yours. keep me buzzed on you like a bee is to flowers. i want your two lips to usher in my good mornings. i want to drink in the nectar of your thoughts and  whisper to you stories of my own. i want your lips to be the prototype of lips—the only image my mind conjures when i hear the word. in this region, tulips are scarce. but what reason  have i to complain, your two lips can bloom  into the loveliest smile in the world?