My itching hands reach for the perch of a pretty flower
Whose petals splay in unison
And of equal distance to each other.

This is not a drill. I must behold the flower,
For its skin in softened light of
This Dim Room
Casts a creamy, glowing texture
Upon its flat and fragrant tears

To take these tear drops of dusk orange,
To replace them for my own,
Is to learn peace, that which
Only a pretty flower knows.