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