A flower behind the eye
Roots in the skin
Seeking water not spoiled by sweat and tears
The touch of my lover
The softening of thorns for her handling
The shade of branches for her slumbering
I grow gentle in her arms
Under her gaze
I grow further from the ground
Bloom and flourish and shriek for her
A flower behind the eye
Torn from it roots
Settled in a quiet place
Brushed softly behind her ear

How wretchedly stubborn you are,
Clinging to that tree
Like a man condemned,
Grasping at the last flicker of life,
Even as the darkness tightens its noose.

You knew, didn't you?
That this was never meant to last—
And yet, you hold on,
Like a soldier in the shadow of the gallows,
Waiting, not for salvation,
But for the slow mercy of death.

Is it time that terrifies you?
No.
Time does not heal.
It devours.
It gnaws at flesh and soul alike,
A ravenous beast that leaves behind
Only bones, memories, and regret.

And yet, despite knowing this,
Why do you still cling?
Is it hope?
Or is it that cruel instinct to endure,
Even when there is nothing left to endure for?

I wonder…
Perhaps it is not the fear of death that binds you,
But the terror of a meaningless end.
So you cling—
Because to fall is not merely to die,
But to be forgotten.

(How strange, that I should see all this—
In the silent struggle of a flower,
While the world moved on around me.)

A flower does not seek why it bloomed
Nor does it ask why its petals are blue;
Time under the clear sky is alive,
Weathering storms can mean something
Though they're all likely nothing
To the aster who doesn't have a midlife.

She talks regularly and with great enthusiasm,
of all the flowers she's ever gotten.
From boys and lovers and friends,
and even that one girl, from camp.
She remembers vividly, all petals and pollen.
She elaborates each scent, and colours each bloom.
But when I asked of her lovers names 
She said she had forgotten.

Every drop of your sweat
is like the nectar of flowers.

But you are not a flower—
you are sweeter and more beautiful than that.

And I am not a bee,
for they taste nectar from every other flower.

I am yours alone,
devoted to no other.

Let me taste your nectar
and make me only yours.

Everywhere I could be
your scent persists.
Vibrant.
Brissiling.
Blooming        out
to the edge of sight.
This bed of flowers that follows.
What fragrant colors
fill my day: Platinum, pale gold, indigo
as you linger on me,
rested in rich black
soil. So familiar
it seems a mirage.

Thousand lily pads drift
Upon the lake's surface.
Like Xiao Lanterns
That were all set adrift.

The flowers of the plants
Decorate the water,
They swim in the dim light
That which each lantern grants.

A Lily catches my eye:
Its buds yet to blossom,
No light shines upon it,
Its movement's a bit shy.

Yet it's the prettiest of all,
It will bloom beautiful blossoms,
Its light will drown out even stars,
I shall support it, lest it fall.