While I unravel the narrative of a night that never ended (in my imagination),
you pluck the loathsome thorned rose of letting go and leaving home,
beat yourself senseless with burdens bought by battle, lessons pressed beyond bone and bleeding out of you.
You slice the sunflower of stilted speech from my soft facial skin, pluck a pretty flower
to soften the farce, picturesque.
I only blink.
©sweepingly
S