my flower drought,
that sinks in with doves
and fluttered thoughts,
water our weekends
so weekdays feel like
miles away.
your voice scratches the tape,
skipping like my pulse,
a dawning gut turn.
for you, i'd write my soul off
and scatter broken glass so
you can walk the broken concrete.
you roam around lily-pads,
decorated in mauve blush
and raining down my porch.
I wish you good grace and
a life of longing, my bud.
my bud, cigarette or flower.
you create dents
in my skin, so hallow that I can
feel them when they are gone.
I grew,
planets for you,
to nurture in your nectar
angel cakes and soft flesh.
rock my babies and tell
them mommy is here to
make it all better.
my bud, cigarette or flower,
marigold sprouting in the soil
of tulips and daisies.
you do cure the silk spilled concrete,
slipping from the material,
bloody pink and printed designs,
does this designer make me
an authentic bud, such as yourself?
I grew constellations for you,
to connect the reasons
why I have you in my mind
from dawn until waking.
my flower drought,
so wilted and tightened,
bring gold to your seed
and diamonds to you
roots.
