The Flower

He paints the ceiling blue As I lie awake in my bed Counting the white spots his brush did not reach The bright bulb casting a white glow As he flicks the switch. He sits at the top of the ladder As I emerge from a winter slumber Hungering for him, ravenous for his warmth The soft breeze tossing tendrils That lick and caress my face. He does not see me As I crane my neck to the heavens Begging to kiss his cheek, press my lips to his flame Consuming me in wildfire The heat that radiates from his body. He slips down the ladder and hides behind a shadow As I lie awake in the night Setting behind the hill, are he and my strength The cold of night dousing me, I am alone with the earth.