We met in our own tea house
secluded from the pollution of the outside world,
there we sat dancing through each others thoughts
laying fruitful seeds of seduction with sweet fluctuations,
for everything else was merely four-play for curiosity and validation
a prequel to a play that never took to stage,
her stem as slender and fragile as the bloom she held up high
we pollinated time to forever lust the moment lost,
but it is meaningless without reason
for some treasure boxes are best left unopened.

B. L. Crisp