there is a red sparrow  
tasting caramel pecans in the backyard while I lean
against the kitchen counter reminding myself
‘your so passionate about submissiveness and dominance'
(relevant volume of an alleged innumerable intact)
that it’s another morning with a warm cup of coffee
and by the time I arrive at the subway station, there is a man
sitting on a bench painting temptation with blue, reds and purples
whispering oblivion monsoons
and real affection;
yet there is a silence reverent to
a ballad of praise; conjuring all
of the autumn phases, but halfway through the night
I could discuss about clinical studies with the
bittersweet absence of an empty
entrance “debilitated by spring
roots"

- G

Back and forth on a timeless time machine.
I walk to the edge and see a field of flowers.
The field goes on for miles, stunning in it's vastness.
Every single flower is purple.
Not the same shade of purple, but every shade, magnificent in its rainbow of purple.
Dark purples.
Light purples.
Purples close to blue.
Purples close to pink.
Purples so dark they near black.
Lilac purple.
Lavender purple.
Every purple you can imagine and then some.
These flowers are not just one kind of flower either.
There are carnations, roses, lilies, daisies, every kind of flower you've ever heard of and then some you haven't.
These flowers take over my vision and consume my mind so that all I see is flowers, and purple.
But, as I peer closer, I spot one flower that is a different.
That flower appears to destroy the beautiful effect of all the purple.
But it doesn't.
That single flower is a bright, crimson red.
The color of horror flick blood.
It's a vibrant dahlia flower.
The petals cascade violently over each other, craving my notice.
Craving the euphoria of touch.
I sympathize with that flower.
I, too, knew that craving.
I, too, knew the craving of another's touch.