The Details Were Written at the Bottom of the Bottle

July held eternal summer days existing serenely among the wildflowers.

Hidden in a sea of lavender with her provided solidarity, giving me a tangible sense of familiarity that I had lost years ago.

She made me feel everything all at once. Yet, there was an odd silence in my head each time I looked at her.

A rush of emotions so intense, so blinding that all I could feel was tranquility.

The bottle of wine we had consumed while lying in the field was discarded to our right, remaining in our line of vision to not be forgotten.

Collecting the bottles of alcohol we consumed while shielded away from the rest of the world was her idea. As a token of our time spent together.

She used them as vases for the bouquets arranged in her spare time. Flowers have piqued her interest since childhood, the fascination came from her mother. The knowledge she obtained of each species entranced me. Watching flames of passion ignite behind her irises anytime she shared a whimsical fact left me breathless.

Delicious poison trickled through our veins; our faces flushed and skin warmed from the alcohol, the sun, each other.

This is the state I only ever saw her in.

Drunk off desire and alcohol, I couldn’t recall a single moment I saw her sober.

Amidst complaisant kisses and wandering hands, she was babbling. She could never keep quiet, even with her mouth against mine.

“Wisteria,” She spoke, her head tilting back to allow my lips to brush along the dip of her collarbone. “Almost identical to lavender. Poisonous in contrast.”

“How do you know the difference?” I whispered against her skin, feeling the need to keep my voice hushed, as if we’re exchanging a secret meant for only each other. I lifted my head to meet her gaze. “How do you know we’re not lying in a field of wisteria right now?”

“I don’t,” she smiled. “You have to examine the core. The seeds. The roots. That’s when you’ll know.”

I tell her constantly how she reminds me of lavender. The calmness she illuminates, the sweetness on her tongue and in her words. The softness of her skin, the joy she brought to myself and others around her. Each piece of her poses as a petal, mending and blooming like lavender in late June. Emitting a comfortable stillness so rare in the world around us.

The realization that I have never seen her stripped to the core, that I have never seen her roots, quickly turns the sea of lavender around us to a sea of uncertainty and suddenly I’m drowning. I’m left wondering if the seed she has planted within my heart, if the love I have fooled myself into believing she has for me, oozes toxicity.

As her lips found their way back to my skin, I glanced at the lavender blooming around us and am hyper-aware of my ignorance, my ineptness to examine the root, and my inability to learn the difference between lavender and wisteria.