Dry Roots

How foolish,
having dismembered
and flung my heart like passion fruit
towards the violent earth of your arms,
so ready to be rooted

but you are not lush in soil, moist with intention

And my chest
now stripped of all greenery,
whimpers for seed, pulse, your pulse
to plant itself like a rosebud
in every chamber, every empty space

but you are not Nature's offspring
sipping condensation
beneath that big golden balloon

No, I can feel my love rotting
in your care