Naturally, she was suspicious of the proposal happening at our spot, on our day and I, of course, would not disappoint—well, except for uncertainty regarding the one wish I had not yet shared and which would soon be in the open: instead of a traditional tux, I would wear my grandfather’s blazer of brilliant brocatel—pretty much a technicolour dreamcoat—as a tribute to how she had both textured and coloured my life for the better. Hope still held that she would approve both asks, but it would be okay if she wanted to sit on them for a while—because I knew she always sought me when she needed company or a smile. ; )

For most bloomer boomers, such placement, relucent in dayroom’s sun, elevated both content and aura of the art, but, for two, no angle or ray could ever match the glow felt in just having some time spent up-brushed rather than apart. ; )

Could a pool be a lairage

To doom blooms paired from corsage

Of sheepish, cowlicked collage,

Whose hurting heart did dislodge

Hope’s decor with a slight podge

Toward sipping Al-Mi’raj? ; )

What made her the GOAT [Grateful Ordinary Amiable Teetotaler] was that when she saw others heading down a slope of sots, she would abstain from heralding hatchetation and, instead, provide them faith’s facilitation—lots. ; )

When fear ever avoids any situation that could throw life off track,

It may be a win for a min, but soul’s vessel will continue to lack,

So solution to such siderodromophobia needs a new hack:

Brushing alongside imperfections—thus, firing will’s glazed-phase heart attack. ; )