Broken corollas

For D

Pressing flowers between the pages of
                    stolen poetry books,
not knowing
or caring
how long the process took
or if it would work or
                    just cover us
in the evanescing colours
of broken corollas…

Gladly wasting away the day
we discussed stolen poetry & plucked
                    flowers;
distinctions & equivalence;
the thrill of transgression
& the ambiguity of possession.

Telluric currents of nuance
passed through us as
a consequence of curvatures
                    of time,
of our spines, of
the invisible line

unspoken, our agreement breaks
upon the edge of love & hate:
permanent & inconclusive

our ideas about true beauty
make it hard to live
but if you promise to stay
            I’ll promise not to leave…