Slow Burn


Your mouth was at war
with your heart
when you found me there –
under the flame trees,
bright white and burning leaves.
And I might have decayed
in your garden –
nude as stones,
untangling myself at the root.

You were an endless anomaly
mouthing almost-perfect lies
in perfect strings –
just a shadow dancing up the walls
making tents of our fingertips
and puddles below our feet.

And all at once you arrives
like the summer berries
ripe, alive, and bursting –
at the peak of the season,
and all at once you were gone.
Nothing left
but a violet bruise spidering out
over shriveled seeds.

Photo credit: creative-diver on deviantart


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