I'd rather be or nothing at all

Fake Flowers

One lonely step.
A silence, a puckering
Of the lips as petals fall.
It’s the aftermath of the tongue,
Dropping words as if they could
Simply wither away
In a silken furnace
Heated by the dull underbelly
Of forgotten wanderlust.

I’ve kept an idea of love
In its higher form-
I think it’s through the nose
That one can tell whether
There is truth in one spoken
Word.
To go any higher means to
Offer yourself to falling
Into shards of glitter frost
And no one wants that.

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(a work in progress)