Poetic Allusions · Un P'tit Je Ne Sais Quoi

I went back here, — to the scene of adventures, where I've come to love you so-so many times, where so serious, you taught me to use silence, and just how it should be scattered and released, and finally, again, to get it caught in my fists. I went back here, — to the scene of adventures for reviving myself in your non-earthly beauty, to let myself be abandoned through your desires and through the space and abyss of a fragile color reflected delightfully in the blue shell of your sea.

“on dit que la passion ça n'arrive qu'une fois...”

A scent you love to smell is I. I'm slipping slow inside you, like the sand in an hourglass, like the time in another time, evaluated at your °C degrees in the symphony of my fever, infused suavely in your dew with your eyes echoing glow to my unseen Venus mirrored in the art of your magnetism, – I murmured to yours dreams.

I know your name… It has risen every morning in my thoughts… but I do not say it aloud, too terrified that the poetry you are with the fragile cat's paw will fall apart somewhere, not where I wait I know your name… I whisper it daily enough to not destabilize the chemistry of us… but also, me to not be somehow incriminated, for my mind bears you deeper than the eye can see Right Back Atcha by Dave Keller

I'll never look for you again; take it as an announcement of love's declaration I've got; take it as a sublime orgasm totally lacked but it teased our blood, like a drug's heat; take it as a song met before of happening in a tiny poem hung, somewhere, thru time; take it as it is, a souvenir kind; enjoy how deep this river runs with all our facts tangled in it;

in the mysterious feminine romanticism stimulated by that escapade mechanism with that explanatory instrument brought charmingly by a deep eloquent allusion, — the visual writing system deciphers gently an image by assembling it to several frames for creating that distinct connection, firmly felt amid the feelings of those sensations so well personified by intense emotions, which, if it could be put in a tangible practice would be useless, spoiling any signification for love's a stranger of our chic psychology

each day is irresistible when it's shining from your eyes inside my eyes, walking through one glance of the virtual world of yours and mine with everything that's happening here in these random circumstances of your being in my being, enough for discovering in any individual day the distance that's within us measured by the testimony of reality, — a reality with strong and timeless feelings brought by a poem or a song, — câline, (as i am), mannered, (as you are)

the shortest way, from me to you, is the longest road from you to me, — could be the reason for which happiness gets conjugated at the past tense; you may try any witchery; white magic, black magic, using certain tools, invoking spells, formulas, methods, and techniques, calling supernatural forces, will not channel anything; seems ridiculousness, but loneliness takes care to remind you, — the happiness gets conjugated at the past tense;

let it be like a sweet suggestion  for each day to be combined  with the seductive and the mystery  created by a fascinating image  inspired by the holographic icon  of a trance-foamed melody  in poetic notes for which  one loves to surround you  in the echo of the blossom roses

I threw myself in the bottom of my stomach to catch butterflies with the color of your eyes I've been waiting on you in a visual aid sonnet with an intense pretext of my emotion in yours There's no interlude. Desires have the potency to reconnect me to passion sound's sparks to not miss you

Psst… Do you hear me? Then come with that magic as I’m coming up with a song to not hash out the spell. Bring with you an easel. Love is in an arch of colors… Let me be tinted in pigments of its symphony. Paint my heart in the sounds of its beating. Make it visible. The poppy’s crimson use it on lips while on the eyelashes let it be the summer twilight. Put the appealing color from the magician’s aura which you are, on my breasts. Spread it to my other symbols… Psst… Are you still coloring this whirlwind of feelings? You should add even more another deep color… Use it. Use a little bit of the blue light from the glitter of your eyes to be able to recognize me in these infinite touches of the sky which’s breathing in my love through the music’s silhouette.

Kiss my heavy eyes of so much cried, for just your kiss, it could be capable enough to quench my gripped eyes by evil fire and get 'em filled, with love and shine. Kiss my mouth, — my lips are clutched and they forgot the  smile and word's  sweetness; with the serenity, they're gonna smile again and fall in love with you, exactly like at first. Kiss my brow as any miserable thought and any kind of doubts to die, — bonus to be for all my dreams, a revitalization out of the spring, — for a new life... 𓇼 translation‧‧‧ ©ᵏᴼᵏᴼ ↭ un p'tit je ne sais quoi ‧ chic… à ma façon

separated by a rectangle we're approached by music; in the evening hours,  synesthesia it's you, it's me and a glass of red wine a song floats through us balancing errorless our thoughts, majestically not in vain, we graduated the course of language, — …tenderly love in endless sweet colors, we're blooming joy; I am, — [lost-in-your-love] you are the… — [ K ]🎼

it's [13:13], — call it dreaming, call it relative freedom or call it architecture with changeable shapes that dances with my silhouette in infinite games chic boosted by your fantasies to the brim, — [love]

I would like to get into your dreams... — in those dreams genetically predisposed of being sober in the realm of happiness I would like to get into your dreams... — making them more beautiful, — at once

What can be done, when the soul is lead ahead of the seasons like if's a locomotive full of buds? What can be done, when the heart breathes the rainbows even if outside, the snowflakes are still dancing? Where to direct them, when the blood boils into the veins and the feeling is as if something stumbling them in a landscape with a wind of summer choked in some stalking gazes? Why when so many butterflies are flattering in the dew of the moon, the sentiment is as if are caught in a frozen light? How many questions are necessary when in me, you're already the favorite season out of thousands of dreams, and me, like a flake, in summer, in your arms, melted