Soft as a freshly bloomed lilac,
covered with dew in the morning light.
Coy as burgeoning lavender,
bashful and afraid of the limelight.
Yet at time it’s overwhelming,
like a musky scent signifying your rapture.
And it could be alluring,
the way authentic wine got you undone.
It’s the epitome of ambiguity,
an unsolved mystery no one could deny.
It’s a seductive piety,
that’ll bring even the strongest to their knees.
À la mort,
It was supposed to be about the color purple, but I can’t help picturing you as I wrote this.
This suits you.
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