Butterflies, clamped hands, a sight (a euphoric vision to the beholder), with physical want and mental cravings like a pregnant woman’s. That is love in all its glory, resounding off color: a ricochet of lovely words off skeletal trees. The mango sun will shed its coat to radiate a brighter yellow sun, and the hazy-eye sky imitates the elegance of London’s smog head cold; you that see exaggerated reality, must be kissed by love, must have a fluttered belly, it will grow you a dazzling orchid.