harvest season
hello moonshine midnight once again. i find your cold skin searching for my own flesh in this passage of spring time. deep breaths and wait for the rustle of new blossoms, fresh sakura, lost on strangers expecting roses. the moon finds me rested on this land, into this soil. i am extracting nutrients and implanting them into my body. my temple—the only one that i still know how to pray to —blowing out its candles. hands clasped, knees scraped, i press to the point of blood and maybe god will listen more. is it still dark? i have been here for seasons of lingering twilight teasing the horizon. it knows how much sunlight it can hide to fake its presence. truth: it likes the evening primrose. but it also likes the necessity —its absolute job. so it always comes through the stained windows casting rainbow patterns onto the floor. my eyes are looking for the dark in between because i, too, love evening primrose though i only harvest sakura. truth: i cannot learn to make primrose on my own. my trembling hands and stuttering fingers always travel back to the blossoms i have already perfected. the ones everyone thinks suit me best. they are more my style. but i've heard of miracles in inhibitions. —moonlight lover of illegal drugs. i let my hand fall into the seedlings, buried by someone else, i want to bear their blooms. dawn, i beg to sleep easy. i grow my primrose for closed eyes.
