Saturday, October 1, 2011


Surreal in the way that things pan out
I called out, dreaming of more


On that balmy summer night where I picked you the flower from a tree
Not so different than my own 
with the honest exception
my tree doesn’t make flowers anymore.

The perfume spilled from every crevice
From every alcohol-laden word as we all slipped back to childhood
With Edan who laughed so much as we fell through the streets
On that star filled night
Leaving me intoxicated with the patterns of your dress
As it trounced through the streetlights
into the wheat-pasted halls
Still under construction,  to this day

I wake up sometimes, smelling the perfume of that gigantic white flower
Recall the texture of your hair
Running through my fingers as I palmed your head
On those summer nights that persist in my memory

As the petals of a flower that never withers

And I question the nature of my syconium
And the nature of what it means

to bloom.  

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