Sweeter than the peach

that blooms at the halt of rejuvenating springs

and into the advent of golden summers.

 

None can compare to what I have;

not the melodies the rufous nightingale may carry

or the scintillating bursts of dawn as the sun wakes.

 

To consider it subjective that you are for me,

 

and I for you,

 

is illogical;

for this is plainly and distinctly fact,

on display for anyone to see for themselves.

 

Fear threatens this with each new day,

and naturally the Insecurity who is a fit companion to it;

fears of familiarizing within ourselves too much,

or contrarily,

knowing too little.

Letting apprehension make us sick for days that see no end.

Doubting abilities that satisfy our souls, each other, our minds.

 

But must we let that be stronger than this?

This of which I speak so proudly of.

Like the welcoming tree under which we sit,

offering shade in July’s unforgiving heat;

where no one can find us and the grass is greener everywhere

while the open skies sing.

Or perhaps it is like those peaches.

 

Our love:

the sweetest peach,

the mellifluous nightingale,

the vast and most blissful plains scattered in

wild indigos, lupines, and Queen Anne’s lace.

 

Yes,

this Love.

Merciless,

Chaotic,

and so irresistibly

Desirous.

​​

​

— A.M. Sención

2021