This is no poem about love

Goodmorning beautiful
I hope this mornings aroma
is like stepping on the template of a museum floor
Your grounded
Profounded by the art that gravitates you in the house of madness
We stare into ones that make our laughs feel like voids of yellow beams
And coffee that makes our hearts rapidly beat to flowers blooming in speed
Life creates a higher pitcher that rings an nonexistent of a tone that spreads and grows and we both know the smell of the essence in the air and we can tell by our eyes
How our souls are so deeply inclined to be together throughout the sands of time.