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 and rebelled
against its own origin.
The mind raining between the sheets,
the sky unmade beneath her skin
by 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?