For D
Pressing flowers between the pages of
stolen poetry books,
not knowing
or caring
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 &
plucked flowers;
distinctions & equivalence;
the thrill of transgression,
the ambiguity of possession.
Currents of nuance ran through us
as consequence of curvatures
in time;
of our spines &
invisible lines
where the light bends, blends & divides.
When the flowers faded &
dried,
we knew wasted time is not a wasted life,
only
that our ideas about true beauty
make it hard to live…
but if you promise to stay
I'll promise not to leave.
I love this ❤
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Thank you, I’ve yet to show it to the friend it’s dedicated to: hope she likes it as much as you do
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I’m sure she will
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