Magic

The silken gleam of your eyes — in the swift moment of meeting — sings in me more eloquent than any speech, still. More eloquent than any word, your lips roam over my ear, chant a spell in the deep silence. Hundreds of butterflies of every color dance in my courtyard. In my courtyard that has brimmed over with wild yellow flowers sprouting. Undeniably, the silken warp threads of our meeting you bound to my weft. Undeniably, with your gaze you bewitched me. The only magic that turned into the only truth; for by denying it the warp and weft of all my being — with all the butterflies and flowers — in a single instant would come apart...