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 weed 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.