Dervish of my heart, poet laureate of the mundane, I love how you make me implode. Each time I go inside you there is a new world. The world is readying itself for winter but inside you, my resplendent greenhouse, spring is in amour. You are in bloom within. I imagine you are a garden coming into blossom.
Petunias in the kidneys. Violets in the liver. Gigantic sunflowers bursting out of your heart. Bougainvillea for your nervous system. A spray of delphiniums for your hips. Grape vines for muscles. African lilies for your spine. Orchids for ribs. Lotuses are your palms, pea flowers, your feet. You are my garden and when you take me within I am lost in the blooms of your body. To sleep with you is to wake with fragrant mud underneath my fingernails, to find tangleweeds in bedclothes. And to shake from the pillowcase broken petals, crushed leaves and a chlorophyll trail of my dreams. With magnolias for your kneecaps, I wake remembering the kisses I left upon you as I smell them on my breath. I think if I were to caress your lips rose petals would peel away and fall to the floor.
Tell me, do I not write like a drunkard? Are my veins not flush with the nightshade I have consumed of your mouth?
One day I will lose my mind over you. And then, finally, I will be free.
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Keep this talent of yours shining bright, Miss M. There’s nothing quite like this, no one quite like you.
Love, Miffalicious. [www.miffalicious.com]
Writing for praise is becoming a bad habit.
You made me walk through the Garden of Eden, I danced barefoot and bare mouthed all over my Beloved, in and out of all our crevices and secret hideouts. Thank you.