Pushing dandelions in

defiance of dying roses and 
their body 
count of thorns. 

You wanted my final form 
like some daisy to adorn and 
I could ogle like 
neat whiskey and nostalgia 
goggles. 

Baby, we’re just drunk off old ambience (the taste is God awful). 

So pour me your best, let’s ward off the impossible, faults in our Zodiacs and other stars we can hobble with long odds. 

One more for 
the road, to warm the 
bones one becomes  as 
the underdog of 
flora. 

In this diaspora of roses, you’re the flower I clutch 
closest when I’ve sworn off beauty like booze, 
hungover from the human interaction of being given something to lose.

And yeah, I’m pushing the lesser ideal; wild oats over discipline, trading aesthetic for carnal sin, 
but that’s the appeal-

true love on a whim ain’t pretty in the morning but you always tell
her she is.