She, a poet, in a place without passion
He, a romantic, in a place without love
Both sat in the patch of yellow
The last of its kind, shared by two
And she spoke elegantly about an ancient sky
One consumed by colors and birds
And he nearly wept at her words
As she began to speak of stars,
Delicate beauties suspended in space,
He swore he could see them under his eyes
And extended his finger towards one,
Then exhaled when it met something real
Something tangible, genuine, something true !
"Is it a star?" he asked her, quietly.
And she whispered it was a star of the earth,
Blackened and tainted by the toxic air
Then sighed and spoke of a distant time
When they littered the ground with colors
And their perfumes danced in the wind
"What were they called?" he asked her,
As he pulled the thing from black soil
She remembered the word flower,
And he smirked at its perfect name
He told her if she were to have a name,
It would be flower, and he placed it in her hand
Because her words filled him with warm colors
Her essence danced in his blood
As he spoke an instinct rose inside him
Something raw and undeniable
He pressed his mouth gently to hers
And small noises rose in their throats
The gray was getting closer now,
Plotting out a silent ambush,
But there, in the yellow, they did not see
They were blinded by each other's beauty
And as they shared that fervent kiss,
It crept up beneath them and swallowed them whole
But they hardly took notice that the yellow was gone
Because they could see it in each other's eyes
So they stood and interlaced their fingers
To spend eternity searching for the past