Underneath this myrtle shade,
On flowerly beds supinely laid,
With odorous oils my head o’erflowing,
And around it roses growing,
What should I do but drink away
The heat and troubles of the day?
In this more than kingly state
Love himself on me shall wait.
Fill to me, Love! nay, fill it up!
And mingled cast into the cup
Wit and mirth and noble fires,
Vigorous health and gay desires.
The wheel of life no less will stay
In a smooth than rugged way:
Since it equally doth flee,
Let the motion pleasant be.
Why do we precious ointments shower?—
Nobler wines why do we pour?—
Beauteous flowers why do we spread
Upon the monuments of the dead?
Nothing they but dust can show,
Or bones that hasten to be so.
Crown me with roses while I live,
Now your wines and ointments give:
After death I nothing crave,
Let me alive my pleasures have:
All are Stoics in the grave.

You remind me of someone else
From the kid who sat on my left at dinner
Tracing aimlessly the flowerly pattern
from the tablecloth, while I hear others' tea
in gargles, pretending I care for what is
missing in my own plate

Or the friend of a friend who showed me
Their favorite book, leaving no room to speak
Of the unknown
As for them loving one person in that room
was enough

To the sketch of the high mountains, crescent bow
And bright tiny dots above spotted from my window
at hours people forgets it's fine to wake up

You remind me of the warmth from the big hand
that squeezed mine last fall and the cold coming
from a band that touched my tender skin
You're in none of those stories, yet you got me to sigh
You are the details behind