Diorama

Finding a lilac beside your table in the morning is almost as beautiful as seeing your face when I wake up and kissing you in the dark. I'm fluttering. Thought I could make them vanish, but both my pen and mouth can not say a word of how the weather is turning sweet, how ribbons are doing the knots on itself, how the nights are longer than days, of how this delicate attention keeps me hush. The bones get fallible. You the lonesome oscine ought to be here. Will you call splendid for me?