The love plant on my night table
oozes its green slime,
reaching out to my bed with its finger-vines.
It offers me a tendril, promising a new taste,
something foreign and fresh,
a primer for love.

I let out a morning sigh
and coil a generous vine around my index finger
like a ring,
but I do not feel the ache of possession
like the silver band in my jewelry box
offered me.

If the plant could speak,
it would whisper softly,
“you do not need anyone
to make you complete.”
I dab my finger in its thick jelly
and **** hard,
swallowing its sweetness.
It tastes like a beginning.