My Zhaleh,

True to what your name signifies, you are the heady dew that's left in the wake of a wildly forbidden passion.

If I were to show you what my mind looked like consumed by your thoughts, I would take you out on a moonlit night to the field where honey-scented night phlox buds unfold under the sweet onslaught of the silvery orb, as far as the eye can see.
My mind refuses even to entertain a single thought that isn't of you, just like how the gritty soil of this luscious land quashes the hopes of a different blossom that seeks to sprout from it.

Oh, how wonderful it would be if you were like the crocus flower, taking refuge in my mind only for a fortnight every year. You would be long gone by the time my heart drowns in blood tears, grieving for the soul of mine that is frazzled by the inferno that you had so effortlessly ignited in me.