words Jordan White
Flowers exist only in vases because we want them to.
Half an hour and I’ll soften ‘round the edges,
Half a night and the sky ripples.
Your skin is soft in my hands,
Like freshly woven silk,
Loving slowly, carefully, please tell me you want me.
Can’t you see this is what we were made for?
I fit in your arms like something broken and small,
Only ever a delicate flower, fractured and vulnerable.
Your cigarette lingers from the ashtray,
The curtains flow,
The prosecco bubbles in my skull like a ping pong ball,
Off the dining table.
You whisper and my neurons spiral,
Suddenly our constellations are limitless.
Morning comes and I can smell the flowers,
Your essence in the sheets,
The orange-scented follicles of your hair.
Your body comes to me slowly, like a river to its bank.
Call my name until it flows through me,
Because in these moments,
We’re the river and the ping pong ball and,
Isn’t this what spring nights are made for?
Morning comes and I cook us half an egg each.
Morning comes and the flowers wilt slightly,
Though I still notice the silhouette of your body,
The red of your lips,
How the slow-burning of this fleeting youth is fast approaching,
How your shoe keeps the door ajar,
How in this moment,
You are here.