in bloom

the skiy is a light, bright impossible blue this morning. not quite nude trees have been stamped on its edges in velvety charcoal black with little points of neon green pinned at every tip. my eyes' hands are covered in a fine grit that i can't stop rubbing between my fingers. very satisfying. almost as satisfying as wrapping my legs around you for the first time. or a whiskey sour, no matter how wrong that may be.

i never thought the violets could stand such direct sun. actually, it's not direct sun. it's southern sun that lasts all day and reflects off both the siding and the floor, nearly frying anything on the deck. and the little fragile plants can't seem to get enough. if anything, the fuckers get depressed and wilt when i take them out of their solar oven. we should be friends.
the new pink flower plant, which i've given to unrelenting torment, hasn't blinked.

i'm reading your book again. i feel like we don't have to be friends anymore - i can just read your books and absorb you from the ink and paper. i would miss the morning tea though.
i do miss the tea.

i'm sorry i failed at you. i feel like i could have done better, without all the other stuff in the way.
seems like a common problem of transition, from what little i understand. i'm not gonna let you live in my head with grapes though.
i'm going to do my best to make sure you don't get stuck there.
i think i'm going to fail because, against my will, i find you fascinating.