Beads of morning rain’s residue linger on the pink lips of the meadow rose petals like tears half cried from an overnight storm I only dreamed about, the aftermath of this shaken world filling me as I stroll the meadow path.
The air is heavy over me and inside of me, my thirst barely quenched from sipping these lingering leaves, the pink petals spread to expose their yellow interiors while all around green and purple thistles make it them impossible to touch.
A kiss brings me blood and bliss to my ever hungry lips, and still I sip the tips of leaves to linger and look at, but not to touch, blistered of thirst on my lips, instead of a kiss, as the pink flowers drip.
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