my devotion for you has lasted longer than magnolias
and it was less pristine than their petals—
forgive me if lust wilts my heart but you are far less innocent than i
—still, its decaying scent haunts the leathery remains
beneath the tree outside my window and the wrinkled pages
of my notebook—how many poems i scrawled, moon-eyed and word-drunk
on the slope of your shoulders, your amber-eyed glances and october smiles
—funny how they still smell sweet