I realize that I am jealous of the sun’s
kiss upon your delicate, caramel skin.
The fervent glow of Her lips
pressed against your supple flesh
singes the curve of my mind’s rapture.
I cannot concentrate when she
leers at me with fervent embers in her eyes.
I touched the blue butterfly, resting
on a glowing, peach rose before us
as our fingers loosely interlocked in the heat.
You cried because someone told you
that the butterfly would never fly again,
but I knew that was not true.

The memory of your lips, stained in a stubborn
shade of November is my favorite affliction.
Frosted absinthe dripped from your tongue,
spilling from those November lips, forming the words
which fertilized the garden of my anxieties.
In the nocturne of my imagination, past the perennials
of blue memory, I still nurture an orchid of deep
reverence for the irreparable manner in which
we damaged each other.
I endeavor to tend to this garden, to finally take care
of it.  Of me.  But all I manage to do is **** out my confidence,
settling for the deeply rooted progress of paralysis.
I regret letting you drink from my cup.  
Absinthe did not mix well with the curve of your complexity.
When it spilled, I watched it drip from your mouth,
knowing, with no uncertainty, that you would slither into my mind.