Sitting with my fingertips against the wall, I spoke to you for 3 minutes today. You talked back, your palms against mine as though only a pane of glass separated us. I cross my heart, then open my arms, palms up, and you heap them with wild flowers: ....The blooms of this species are chartreuse, striped with purple bands. Petals have recurving tips; the red-violet
lips have..... It's one of my jobs, I told him, to break your heart with words. To move you into my arms. Heart to heart nipples.
"I love you more than any woman I've ever known. I write poems to you, read them atop tables in Ybor City bars, recite them to the Gulf winds." My arms fill with royal purple fleshy ridges from the heart to the wavy margin. White winged columns -- arching with red anthers -- picked from the path where he rides his horse. "You're the first man I could imagine saying, 'I love you.'" Cones of silence. Fractured flowers. Paddles cutting through, plashing through water. Dark blue suede.