Yellow Rose

Romance is an abstraction, but friendship is

a white-hot votive beneath your breastbone.

You quaver with the warmth, melted

wax pooling over your solar plexus. All

you desire of her: 5 more minutes

conversation. Tell what hurts. And then,

together, stumble on the footage: a room

starlight-dim, engineered to rain everywhere

except where you walk. All you desire of him:

another song. Scope a night sky together,

dig your shovels into the rubied depths

of the breathing void. Tell what echoes back.

And then, eat breakfast in the yard, bees

alighting on your bare shins. For all you care,

the love arrows can miss. The wedding

diamonds can drop in the mud, a glittering

swamp disappearing under

its own weight. You are not interested

in a heart chained in flaming mansions.

You are seafoam breaking into clouds

of yellow roses down every fractaled shore

of your being. All you want: connection.

Understanding. 5 more minutes. Your mind

and theirs: sun strikes a prism and

rainbows work the room like curious birds.