She leans into the petals,
skin dissolving into soft color,
the green veins of leaves brushing her arms
as if they have always known her.

His voice, a thread of dusk,
winds around her wrists,
pulling without force,
settling in the quiet space
between her ribs.

Her breath, uneven,
presses against his mouth,
a drowning in tenderness,
a weight both unbearable and light.

She does not resist.
She does not speak.
She simply disappears
where the flowers open.