There is a flower blooming today.
I rode barefoot on my bicycle to better feel the Fall. Chill air numbing my skin and the delicate patter of my feet touching ground an unexpected sensation when I arrived home. Dignity wrapped in a gentlemans jacket.
It’s a beautiful flower, petals tightly closed.
I put the collar on and I don’t know how you did that. Crunchy guitar from the computer machine. All the better to hear you with my dear. Give this and take it and the sound of the word Yes. I don’t know how it was done, what mechanism wasn’t tripped. You deserve whatever I give you. The word is a stone.
It is a full flower, heavy and rich.
I’ve found the chocolate left on the bedside table. The brown and white jar looks out of place on the plastic fushia. That’s what caught my eye. Seventies theme against the bright Ikea celebration of colour. With my boxes here, I can settle in. I can swathe this wan box with comforting vibrancy. It tastes like welcome.
Hold it, not a rose, not quite, something bigger, more complex.
This is a gift. This is a gift that I don’t understand, but appreciate and crave. A baffled tangle of the perfect courtesan moment. If I were a different person, you would be scared of me. You would never let yourself take what I give. I make people happy. This is danger, this is addiction.
You think the word Crysanthymum, but you are wrong.
Today I sat on the back of a car, watching a house. A hand slipped from between classic lace curtains, picking up a jar. The sound when the hand put it back sounded so far away as to be unbelievably distant. As if sound could never sound from so far away. Glass against wood reminding me of the praires. The endless seas of green grass and yellow grain.
It fills your cupped hand.
It pulses with bloody warmth, hotter than you.