Green

She is a flower
so romantically white, so sincerely
unmolested, so poetically pure
and he is too enamoured to pluck it...
I hate how this is already turning bitter, when really she is
so fine, so white, so pure.
And he, in his ardent longing, never dares to long
too much, never dares to long too long.
She, white and delicate, nodding and lilting in
the bobbing breeze
frosting world comes and goes
and he, overwhelmed simply by the gift
of her absentminded eyes, absenthearted sighs
is content to gaze, to be, to venture two steps inside her frosty world
and there he loves
without heat rubbed on slick bodies
without sighs infused with fusion
without slicing off that stem, and appropriating the bloom
(because, then, it would wither and die).

She, for her part, bobs and weaves and nods and lilts
maintaining herself
saving
for the time
when that cut will not kill, but preserve-
yes, it is a metaphysical belief,
but such is the nature of things sacred.
And I, for my part
am a weed. A dandelion, maybe,
joining the hordes that swarm along sunlit hillsides
and stretches of plain- loathed, exterminated,
but everywhere proliferous.
Garish yellow, harsh and hardy, I'm one of millions, those
sun-eyed flowers, neckleces for lovers
reclining sensuously on frothy fields of green-
entirely expendible.
When I go ghosted
and shield my core
with a sphere of cloudy flower,
you could try to wish on me
as long as you realize
that this, too, is a poor and stupid hope.

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I realize it's horribly cliche. Bear with me.