How old am I and no one ever thought to bring me flowers? Not until you came along, you were the only flower I needed.
A dwindle of shrubs, rough patches marring the earth scarring it with sandpaper meadows. Barley peeled back to show you what I kept hidden inside, what I was made up of.
Chronos has passed, darling.
I had almost feared you wouldn’t make it in time. I’d measured out the minutes with ticks of the sun, hours with spots of the moon until I felt that familiar warmth.
You come to me in the shape of an orb, vast estuaries, and the vault of Heaven; bearing ovum and lace patterned blossoms. Serpent tongue, but delicate fingers that filled the ground with brines. Your feet licked peonies across a bereft field, hydrangeas were birthed as their twins, but the anemones were envious of them.
You have given me perennials in the form of amber irises, a golden husk, and sharp tongues; Queen Anne’s lace. The highest form of devotion, passion painting that Empyrean you gifted me.
I shall call you Phanes.
Leave a Reply