I held you
tightly,
on top of an
eight-story parking lot,
right after a cigarette
and a long walk
down the bayou.

A city so similar,
yet so different
from our own,
the smell of desire
checking corners,
slipping through museum corridors,
obsessed with
uncentering paintings
drawn long before
you and me.

Before we leave,
to return to the mundane,
I perch a kiss,
so unnecessary,
but so needed.

Flowers start blooming,
first between cracks in the pavement,
then in the hollow of my chest.
Their roots stretch inward,
clinging to all that
once felt barren.

Petals unfurl
in places I thought
were long forgotten
soft violets behind my ribs,
sunflowers tracing
the outline of your smile.
Each bloom carries
the weight of us,
fragile, fleeting,
but alive.