Whenever I grab a flower, it is always by the stem.
And my cumbersome fingers often bruise its slender frame.
I suture it, as if my fingers were a corset forcing the flower to bloom.
I wish my fingers were dainty, even though I know once plucked
the flower will begin to grow old and shriveled, much like my fingers
after I had thoroughly wash them of the pollen and glucose.
I do not even sniff or take a gander of its bulbous form
For it shames me
To think that I have harmed something so beautiful.
Today I may have bruised you, but tomorrow I shall wait
for your tender frame to soften before we embrace.
My approach will be reproached. My touch a transient state.
All friction will be elided. But then you will wilt
your petals giving way to gravity, your color losing its golden hue
And I will hold you, until you are brittle.
And when they ask me, what have you in your hand.
I will declare the stem of a flower.