"Cindy, it was always you"

                            It was all in the way you smiled, Cynthia. Decorated in blueberry vineyards, outside among unfolded daffodil landscapes in mid July. Night sweat promenades and afternoon rose gardens. Flower columns enveloped in luminous courtyards manors. By the public pavilion, I pronounce your name: Cynthia. Highlighted in red and green shadowed overtones. Delusional and cryptic, promiscuous architecture subsides. Radiant and streaming in ultraviolet sunlight. Flesh and moisturous droplets, pale and feeble, your stature and demeanor. Crimson red moonbeams and bittersweet orchestrations.
                         Late twentieth century feelings: Cynthia, luxurious and shallow. Spraying waters ascend from center plaza fountains. Hallowed out stale faint mornings, through your soiled eyelids remain tales untold, fables yet transpired: Cynthia. Apartment seasons upon mounting the marble stairs, I hear your name spoken: Cynthia. Weekday premonitions below the coming rainfall. Daily showers transcend lost time and abandoned agriculture. Darkened skyline centuries pervade lucid dreams in cunning intervals: Cynthia.  
                          We took tea in the backyard one evening in late April. Below an unsturdy umbrella that shook to steady breeze, how sourly and nimble, our conversation lingered in awkward measures. Our time seemed empty and vulnerable, later together we strolled upon midnight terraces in supple surroundings.
                          Frequenting city funerals in vague urban townships. Roadside automobiles, lucrative and automatic. Pedestrian freeways and sordid traffic signals. We forget all that is precious, beautiful, baptismal at worst: Cynthia. Take your deceased grandmother's jewelry and flush it down your ceramic toilet. We need the majestic kiln, varnished in faded colours. Take me to Pottery Barn: Cynthia, then later we'll attempt to use your 10% off coupon at Bed, Bath, and Beyond. Drive me around: Cynthia in your used Maroon '95 Honda Civic. We'll stop by your stepfather's house and borrow his VHS copy of "Good Morning Vietnam". We won't really want to watch the movie, but it will be the only motion picture we haven't seen a hundred times. Then later we can go into your departed stepbrother's room and make morbid love upon his juvenile futon.
                           One thing I want you to get straight Cynthia is: it was never the other girls, who hung around outside the Starbucks parking lot after closing hours on weekends, they never drew me in or did it for me, I need a girl who understands my grit filled domesticated lifestyle, like you: Cynthia, Cindy it was always you.