The Gol and the Bolbol

I would walk her through a crystalline plat of roses that won’t break even when we stomp; where the wind carries music atop stems and leaves, our blinding-white moon shone through their perfect glass petals in a spectacle of dancing fire
just for us.
I would take her to places that only exist after dusk,
and we could stay up past dawn.
We would think our love is so bright we could see in the dark
like a 2-bat camp of bards.