A lone apple blossom clings inside sticky heat.

She blooms too late—her petals ache with desires.

I press my thigh—her fleeting scent, without mine, incomplete.

The mirror knows my hungers, captive by summer briars.

 

She blooms too late—her petals ache with desires.

I spread for her—hot breath, the mirror’s caress, skin wet as dew.

The mirror knows my hungers, captive by summer briars.

Her fingers—stamens—circle—I ache—I view.

 

The mirror knows my hungers, captive by summer briars.

Blossom falls—her pink lace, a pool, straps drift as leaves.

Her fingers—stamens—circle—I ache—I view.

She wilts in glass—her nectar, wind-blown, grieves.

 

Blossom falls—her pink lace, a pool, straps drift as leaves.

I touch—visions of her caress—her sighs fall as stars.

She wilts in glass—her nectar, wind-blown, grieves.

Alone, I bloom—my arch of ecstasy, lonely as love’s scars.