Loveland (Linger:Part II)

A Poem by MaybeDreams37

A work in progress. I've been stuck on the third stanza for a while now.

It's always morning in Loveland, or so I've been told
Always blue jays, always spring air, always cotton candy clouds
Flittering faeries carve choruses into willow trees in The Commons with their cupid-wands for the regulars and the wanderers to absorb as they hide from the sunlight underneath nature's umbrella and kiss away city streets and citronella.
I don't see trees, I don't kiss him to hold me together, I let myself be blinded by routine indie bands and Quincy Market hotdog hugs , careful to never set foot on the same blade of grass twice.
That's what passion feels like, or so I've been told
I don't wake dawn. I wake sunsets.

It's always morning in Loveland, or so I am told.
Always hopeful like a faith in the Father til death, always slow sleepy vibrations you can see in the sky like a finite rainbow whose arc leads you to where you are because no amount of gold can surpass this
Always linger, always baby-born, always snow globe world
Orgasms map out their itineraries like a tour guide who skips history lessons and lets you snap pictures of beauty before it is explained, so you almost feel as if you created it, not some ancient civilization with reason and strategy behind every square inch.
Like you created his release with your mind, his muscles with your mouth, and his breathe with your arched back.
Screaming into open air, "more!"
That's what linger feels like...or so I'm told.
I don't wake dawn. I wake sunsets.

It's always morning in Loveland, or so I'll see, they say.
They expect me to relate because real human experience automatically includes surrender to something beyond ourselves.