Crepe myrtle blooms, pink like the blush of fever
roots growing from the broken bones and spirit
but drinks from the lingering passion of past lovers.

Your footsteps are the creeping of violets throughout
the garden, yet I can feel your touch on the air as it rains,
your memory like the wood smoke from across the street.

I lick my lips, apology and sin, at the tip of my tongue.