To Fail as a Flower

It is my face I pray you recall
when you are despondent. Like a room

you walk blindly, yet sure of where
the chairs are scattered. And every

line within your fingerprint filled
with knowledge of my neck, my shoulders,

the small cup of my back like some fragile
flower. When you pray, I hope you hurt

the way I hurt, when you cut me away.

No comments: