You and I seasoned the Earth with enough passion to poison.

The willow leaves curtained in the real cause for the season’s change

I don’t think there was anything else that Spring. No sky, no voices, no water, no frogs

just the curtain and a certain smell of unsucked honey suckle

blooming from between your teeth.

I tend to write you next to plants because of these memories hung down like wet leaves

leaving: an act that once felt like a ripped off arm

grew into a valley of pink roses, never to be touched by human hands

but a mesmerizing meeting place for minds on different planes

to explore the same wavelength for pinches of time

dreaming  that can’t be pinched awake.

speak softly but please never stop speaking

let us haunt the spaces between these roses until there is an imprint

of two gorgeous invisible bodies

lying side by side

because eye to eye

so much has to be left to the imagination