I feel a burning burst of red
blooming deep within the folds
of the four crimson corners.

Doors wag frantically,
drums run offbeat, and wild,
as my mind skirts through lists:
my wardrobe, my words,
my whimsical upturn of the lips
at you. Your presence,
shot across my vision, like a teasing glimmer.

Sometimes, I want to reach out
and snatch you from the uneasy haze,
and rock you in with a gentle zephyr
even if you press deep into the stem,
even if I waver under your weight,
even if I bend and bleed.

But then, I also like to imagine you perched
upon the dry dunes of my palms.
so that if I flex my fingers to the clouds
and bring my five petal flesh to my nose,
I'd remain your sky;

and if I snap my fingers in
and dig my nails into my honeysweet center,
you'd be a mere fly,
dim and frail,
lured by the lustrous, yellow cheeks of the tulip.