Broken corollas
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.