Young girls laugh
and cut the stems with fingernails
or small blunt scissors and set them in a vase
they gleam
rough cut flowers
husks by next month
after the water has dried
their stems touching crystal.

Weighty as feathers
desiccated while in bloom
these fossils
touched the moon
only a shadow
of their former selves
brides of the clouds
like statice, lavender, eucalyptus,
pearly everlasting
is nothing but lashes
claws of petal
they don’t care if they are hollow
if their throats are silent
wear iron smiles
ghost bloom
the very bitterness in them
is just a bough of hours
suitably decorating
the table.

In the dream i run toward dead ends
that resemble concrete fists;
and we know that ghosts can only walk through walls
because they’re empty
but you’ll find creases on your bed sheets
just as vacant.
And the impression people leave behind
is something you will always take to bed
when the little yellow-lit squares in
those tall city boxes meant more than just
“other”.
and so what if we feel too much?
they say one word can stand a chance
in changing an entire meaning
and so what if we feel too much, despite
— the coffee that had gotten cold
or the pillow-stitched manifestos
that were only ever meant for display
or the flimsy dots in the sky
we’ve yet to make sense of.
Your vulnerability is no one else’s
needle felt ball.
Do not hide it like baby teeth,
do not trim your sharp edges
for their butterknife.
Do not pick out
the quiet statice petals
just because you’ll never have to
worry about seeing the fracture
when you’re gazing down
at an entire field.
"why has empathy become a relic?", she asks.
"i guess that's just how it is now."
it shouldn't.
it shouldn't.
it shouldn't.