My brain weighs more than my mind. By degrees of nth. Fury. Hell hath. Paths of righteousness. This, that, the other. thhh . . . and what else since then? Oysters, verses, cloisters versus clam shells and all that remains are the acorns and the sweet-gum balls and the bare feet she finds them with. She? Me. I mean her in mean on average is me. Median--where the wildflowers are. Mode--in which you operate. Method . . .check. Madness . . . double check. Plaid . . . checked, paislied, argyled, tweeded. Beguiled and needed you for disenchantment. You? Me.
In other news, the ship sank. Down deep where the stars are so many the night is just pricks of black. Back in the day, slack-jawed, ship high on roils, embroils the captain and the mate. And the fate. Of all. Of all who sail. Who fail. Quail? A bird and an option. Sink. With the ship--the glory and the madness. Check. Down deep. China. Australia. Hell. Deep down. The furies. Sirens. Muses. Confuse the effort for the win. The platter for the trophy. One's the dish, the other's the Baptist. Salome of the veils. Fails.
Seriously, though, I love you. My mind is full of you. My brain even fuller. Petrarch here has something to say. To do with lilies. Calla lilies. Floating on water. Ophelia. Rosemary for remembrance. Honestly, though, I remember you. With flowers. Wild ones. On average.
P. S. I have the shirt you gave me. The flannel one. Oh, and that quill feather. It has alit. For good. Kisses.