Love is not only blind, but a fool, a stumbling mess falling backwards through showroom doors into atmospheres unwelcoming of her presence. She is the unruly show-stopper, bringing the piano’s hook to an untimely end, groping in sultry salutation towards the nearest burlesque beauty, an untouchable object of obsession in the selfish eye of man, to which all occupants react with disapproving sneers and spiteful, sideways glances. They know better than to touch what they cannot have, but faced with such infatuation, she is but a child in a candy shop.
Love is the fumbling mess who finds himself caught between a drop-dead-gorgeous match made in heaven, and a promise she made to her family, yet he seeks comfort in the concept of brief, brash contact, while Beauty seeks escape in the promises he makes under cover of dim moonlight and coffee-shop sound tracks; promises he would whole-heartedly keep if the situation called for such a thing... he wishes she knew.
Love seeks to prevail when common sense is lost beneath the faint aroma of warm mint in the air she exhales over his smile, and he struggles to come to terms with the fact that Rationality and Reason play larger roles in her life than he ever could.
Although her response is as seasonal as the green of the trees, he is content waiting for each and every Spring - the time spent alone in hiding - when they can forget the world and let butterflies multiply inside them, and let warmth spread throughout appendages to disregard a mid-winter’s bitter chill.
Above all else, he will remain steadfast as trees do, through the harshest of Februarys as time is but a matter of context, where in his wasted heart will beat for her always.