Rose Oil and Chrysanthemum
You always smelled like rose oil
And chrysanthemum in the summer time,
In a way I will always envy
As much as I crave.
It clung to you
In a way I never could.
How I wished I could
caress your brow like the sweat and oil
dripping down your face, daring you
to wipe me away this time.
How I wished you would crave
my touch and revel in my envy.
Nothing escaped my envy.
I not crave
the intimacy of the soil
trapped beneath your fingernails, remnants of time
spent planting, nestled safely, protected by you.
I am still driven to distraction by you,
and so deeply envy
your distractions, wasting my time
hoping, but knowing I could
never be one, watching you toil,
knowing I will never be brave.
Still I crave
still does my blood boil,
aching to brush your cheek, and still do I envy
anything that could,
a speck of dirt, a gust of wind, the scent of thyme.
It is the greatest intimacy, time,
of course, that I crave
most of all, and how could
I not? It permeates you,
every moment, every thought, and my envy
is sharp in my chest, a sparking, hot oil.
I could never embrace you the way time wraps
its loyal arms around your every breath, only crave
your time and envy it in equal parts, until, again, I surrender to my fear.