lilac creepes

Baby’s breath line my bones.
The scent of gardenias dances in the air as I
trace your fingertips.
“I was never the gardening type,” I whispered, “I always killed my plants.”
You laugh, lilacs creeping out from under your sleeves. Nectar drips from my lips, and I want to know you, every inch of you. I see morning glories in your eyes. Peonies poke through my ribcage and I finally understand what it means when they say love nourishes you.
—  Peonies, l.s.r.