A broken mirror lied on the ground the first time I bought him a white rose, my favourite kind.
He hung it on the cork board, hugged me upside down. The sky over the ice cream
stand held a lake of water lilies and mint chocolate chips covered both our noses.
I string garlands of lilacs across pavement to lead him back. He called me once his caretaker,
protected by a viper and with a pocket of thorns I seduce salty perfume—lost
ligaments. My language is dead, I must extend bunches of midnight. Purple between
his teeth, for he has eaten my offer and forgotten we were ever human.
Walking back from the lakefront he picked me, a dandelion. Said blow the seeds into my eyes,
aware I’m incapable of breathing I love you in English. Only in Flower and joy while I
destroy some part of his ego, allergic to pollen. He laid me in vanilla, flooded me with
muddy water so I could not re-bloom.
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