Tincture

She looks at me the desire, still intact. pale, crimson and dark shades suit her better.

Lilies blossom in the shared haven, fresh — like a new page, pure — like my devotion, quiet — like our love.

Red anemones burn in borrowed soil, flaming — like a written confession, intense — like her surrender, raw — like our touch.

Black dahlias fall under a lingering shadow, ashen — like the aftermath, helpless — like their pleas, inevitable — like our ruin.

She bathes in silence, wearing the stains that adorn her— tainted — just like me, love has finally become pristine.