You are like my regrets: unforgiving as the carpet of thorns that covers your stems, so that there is nowhere I can grip without getting hurt; unravelling as I behold you, your colors dividing into a spectrum—of white, magenta and flamingo pink—like my original premises. You overpower the pain and uncertainty with the aroma of a pasha’s palace that infiltrates the surface of the coffee table before me, where exotic painted flowers take form in the tiles.
Your leaves cup each of my regrets like a raindrop, an offering to our sun god. Maybe they will evaporate, and then all that will be left is you and me in this temple of being.