You may have noticed I write on your face, a kind of praise,
fuzzy & lovely fragrance of roses, choosing you out
of many then forwarding you as backdrop for my dear heart’s old face 
We reach some element (full sail) within the (verse) set where perfect
touch is unleashed, and by either/or well taught. But the scenery is
suddenly beyond diagram while the crew is calmed down. It’s approaching nightfall.
There’s a dual nature of ghost anonymity that makes what’s inside us
disappear, a bright pulling apart at the summitry of our escape.

Either/or? My/your silence cheats at hearts —
unless we’re in love to win over all sparkle to figure it out?