Do you still drink
of my succulence
in the hot July heat
of a faraway dream,
my ethereal scent of geranium
rising from your night sweat,
a fragrant, poignant memory?
You know
my taste is sweet,
that of plumeria honey.
Flowering in the sensate garden
of my bed,
I turn towards you,
in vivid sleep.
You are my beloved ghost,
cradled in the flourishing vines
of my arms.
You may see me
as a Venus fly trap,
cunning and expedient.
But I am not that, no.
I am a dusky rose,
carefree and forgiving.
A beautiful flower,
unwittingly planted
in the dark soil
of your mind.
Pua Nani.
