Morning Dew

Did it start with the exchanging of names

Or a sudden glance in your direction?

Strangers then, history-riddled mistakes

Blinded us of imperfect perfections.

Please tell me, had that red string come undone

That day when the sun pretended to rise?

Please tell me, had I been the only one

Wishing that morning dew had never dried?

Sweet poison still coating our lips

Burning; a reminder of what we were.

The scent of nectarines—pure and utter bliss

Once paintings of aromatic decor.