Under the branches of crape myrtle I spread a carpet,
lavender flowers on my crumpled stole bloomed when I was kissed the first time.
I turned away,
his lips brushed my cheeks and his fingers clasped me like a man
Amethyst was the colour I remember of the evening thick with
nodules of mulberries. The touch,
softness of the skin was the radiant light that spun patterns blinding,
as jasmine flowers drowned me in its raunchy pungency. Just for the flowers
I remember the evening,
not for the kiss
that did not gather the moon beams that was so abundant that night, it didn’t even
gather the pale greenness from the stalks of flowers crushed beneath us.
(Written to the prompt from We Write Poems)