to condemn it
in order to claim the soul,
to defy her:
no touch,
no surrender,
not to unmake the bed,
but the mind;
both undone
at the mercy of time.
The flowers bloomed,
every one of them,
and yet
she wanted my words
to die in my mouth.
A violet promise:
two seas and one scarlet star;
two colds with garnet texture;
the hue of innocence, once undressed;
a petaled violet, bitten-sweet with perfume;
the nature of the end of time
revealed against its own beginning.
Mind-rain between the sheets,
sky unmade beneath her skin
under the hand that tames the rose
into thorn,
the cut that remakes your world.
Inside lies what disarms your voice:
the water is neither violet nor pink,
you, feeling its way, touching;
you, feeling around, trying;
but it presses your silhouette
to the brink of what you can feel
[coming… or] already here?