Golden tears rest on my shoulder,
plead to not be parted
from their bearer.
Whisper in my ear, remind me you
are but a lily in my hand
whom I may crush
or let blossom in its prime, standing
proud within my palm,
alive.
Feel your weight
press upon my wide splayed fingers,
purest white, majestic
petals,
delicate and light,
tickle softness near my thumb. Flex
my fingers, close them
round your fragile
starlit head. You fight my grasp, tears
beg as I stare,
cold, at your
pain. Your beauty
crumples as I crush you, petals torn and worn
to
transparency. But I, even in
my heartlessness,
see innocence in your fragrant, slender form,
and can no
longer bear the pain
coursing through
your battered blades, your tender limbs falling
toward my
pulsing wrist. Cold
tears mingle now
with golden ones upon my shoulder, my fingers
tremble,
fumble with your faded
form. A single word
escapes my lips as I realize
the bright weight
of
passion.
* Based on Li-Young Lee's "Epistle" and "My Indigo."