Preamble
To be frank; it must be stated that in my heart of hearts there is a lingering cynicism. One that I have suppressed and ignored like a fastidious child groaning for attention. My mind sees red like a bull anxious for freedom and I am condemned to feel the downtrodden reverberation of a scared, loathsome ego. Nevertheless I have put my distaste for hope aside and written as lightly as I could to express an optimism that I find so treacherously uncomfortable.
I know where true romance springs.
The geysers of simple words.
Caring hearts racing toward each other.
Ever close.
Intersecting.
The stirs of spring mean freedom is fresh. On our minds. In our bodies. Our souls. Growth, progress, and anxious expectations. Love seeps through our fingers like sand at the beach. Through our eyes like magma from a volcano. Warmth fills our heart. It is like fear, except we want it never to end.
Eyes lock.
Our hearts entwined like the knots in our stomachs.
A perfect match.
Strike it.
Light the fire.
Pray it's eternal.
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