i’ll find you here, on the tip of my tongue, 3 words aching to be spoken. looking out, i can see it now, all immoral words and actions drained by the poignant roses in your garden. a garden that bellows and demands to be seen, pulsing bright, a labyrinthine bed made for the most affable souls. every part of it was you—the welcoming hug of dew drops on scarlet petals, golden light spilling into shadows but never dulling. the nipping of thorns didn’t bother me, for i was numb with the thought of becoming yours.