Pressing flowers between the pages of
stolen poetry books,
how long the process took,
if it would work or just cover us
in the evanescing colours
of broken corollas…
Gladly wasting away the day
we’d discussed stolen poetry books &
distinctions & equivalence;
the thrill of transgression,
the ambiguity of possession.
Currents of nuance ran through us
as consequence of curvatures
of our spines &
where the light bends, blends & divides.
When the flowers faded &
we knew wasted time is not a wasted life,
that our ideas about true beauty
make it hard to live…
but if you promise to stay
I'll promise not to leave.