The seeds of your soul
have been planted in my heart.

They've sprouted.

Their roots wrapped around my ribs,
latching onto me.

You are a part of me.

I'm weeding,
cutting these emotions
from the roots beneath.
I'm heated
while the sun is burning me.
Indigo, where do I go?
We go
as far as we can
from the low.
The low is your ghost
awaiting the host.
Wading from what's
waiting below.
Storm reigns
to take away our pain.
We drown and die
in the name
of the higher place.
Overdosing, overthinking.
I'm sinking
and you're winking
on my way downward.

Fences enclose sweaty trees
of palms, apricots and figs,
while dried-up roses suffer
heat, next to stubborn hortensia
striving, to blossom despite
anomalous murderous drought.

An infant baobab travelled
all the way from Dakar to be
planted in a *** in Rome, while
the fragile bonsai changes
place everyday victim,
of my indecision fearing

a premature death.

Parsley, basil, oregano and thyme
On rosemary’s opposite side,
Emanate odours of culinary
Makings, as a lonely herb grows
In a corner, unfolding potential
Of future rewards, paid in smoke.

Aloe and cactuses evergreen
Surrounded, by dead leaves
Stranded, along the hedge covering
Fertile soil suffocating, possibilities
For emerald grass to raise as I mow
The lawn picking them up to set

cadavers free.

Do you remember when your voice held my name
not at ransom but aloft,
and it lulled me to sleep to hear those syllables
cocooned in comfort.

You blew back into your hometown this week
trying to hang the language of your new life in the doorways
I've repainted
on the furniture I've shifted
and in the corners of my mind
now reserved for little plants bravely growing in watery sunlight,

they're replacing your absence,
and the taste of your name on my tongue.

my heartbeat is like a quiet thunder
and these tears are the showers
that water the love-seeds in my chest.

there’s not enough color in my head
but there’s so much red and it bleeds.
my love for you bleeds,
and the roses that grow here
are covered in thorns.

i can’t hold on to them
and come out
without scars.

They talk about their relationship problems
Like it's nothing.

My body is a pine tree,
I am more plant than I am me.
I am driven to read, driven to love,
They are driven to ****.
My body is a book,
My binding never shook,
Pages never read,
So many words running through my head,
And all they want to do is touch.
All they do is touch too much
And I a made for talking and to look,
They are stories, and I am but a book.

My body is asexual,
Is a plant and an amoeba and
I do not exist.
They want me to look for more than
A person to trust, to hold hands with.
I look for love where they seek lust,
And they never meant for that to be real.

They talk about their relationships like it's nothing
Because it is,
To them.
It is empty.

They can live alone
Any place on Earth which known
But few see they grown

silence, compensation for the screaming reality of what lies behind flesh & bones.
rip me open and expose the flowers growing between my ribs, their roots winding through arteries, to the pits of my half empty chest cavities. and thorns spike, strike deep between membrane and tissue.
tear me apart and watch me bloom.