The thing about plants is they're stuck where they are.

Premature night behind your eyelids,
pulse points throbbing like
music like
bass more felt than heard.
All taste, no vision,
mental images warring for acceptance behind
crimson over black.
You wonder if his skin will taste like
the cartridge of a ball point pen
because of his tattoos
and if he'll smell like what you imagine
is summer in the south—
lilacs and bonfires.

If he heard what you were thinking,
he would laugh—
or maybe start making promises
rooted in the here-and-now,
set to bloom into short-lived glory
and decay into regret.

You heard it smells like pavement
in the rain.