by Perry Gasteiger
Flowers are dangerous things to love:
held close to beating hearts,
plucked bodies wither
with the heat of devotion.
Her fingers run along my goose-bump spine,
holding petals between tender lips
she whispers angel breath lullabies,
stories woven into the strands of my hair.
She kneels in front of me,
resting her head in my lap,
and I quiver with the weight of her.
A garden tumbles from her mouth
when she says my name
and I find myself treading
on beds of forget-me-nots.
If you love, love softly,
for nothing stings
quite like crushed flowers.
Perry Gasteiger is a writer.
