• 　 　 　He sends her a painstaking invitation to mint tea and honey pastries at a medieval fairytale castle where deep-red roses sigh in the afternoon shadows of broken classical marble statues.
• 　 　 　When she arrives at the manor, it is magnificently ceremonial: tall framed mirrors reflect antique chandeliers that glint onto gold-leafed walls of embellished intrigue. Fine bone china teacups and saucers serve peppermint tea and baklava.
• 　 　 　He isn't there, of course. Instead, a lovely white borzoi hound ushers her into a cozy chamber that's adorned with dark beaded velvet curtains scented with sandalwood. On creamy Tibetan-lambskin cushions, her arms cross over her chest as if she is to sleep in a glass coffin, her hair parted into two long slender braids that hang over her ears and trail down to her waist.
• 　 　 　A hidden monstrosity lurks in a weave of tapestries. With great timidity he treads delicately, imperceptibly, like a fawn in a foggy forest clearing, hoping not to betray too much of his own doubts before the object of his inclination.
• 　 　 　A paraklausithyron: Is the chamber wide open, the threshold creaking ajar, or will he murmur mellifluous mere nothings at/to/through a slit of keyhole? He practices tuning the pitch of his voice so as not to crack it in humiliating fashion, brushes his knuckle against the door, then mumbles and mixes his metaphors.
• 　 　 　This proprioceptional prodding parts the jeweled black veils, the tinkling clatter of which sparks metalized rocailles to ricochet onto her reticular formation. It sets her thalamus a Byzantine glitter, lighting her netted 1920s Cleopatra-skullcap fringed with shiny faceted bugle beads. Sandalwood softly scents her inkling of him.

　 　 　 　　　♡

• I give you my heart.
• Inches closer.
• I give you my love.
• Much closer now.
• She lifts her chin.
• He nods his head.
• Her long braids reach out to
  • strangle him. (Perverse imp.)
    • I give you my breath.
  • clasp him about the neck and gently guide him towards her face. He gathers her in a hush—shush! It connects: X marks the spot. Why—but soft! [Insert the rest of the fairytale.] Hope is the thing with glasslike wings.

　 　 　 　　　❧

• Silly poet,
  • is she a flapper or a braided maiden? Both?
  • long braids don't match a trailing Cleo-skullcap! Oops.