the skin on my face

has decided it does not like this proximity

to the flowers on my desk

the lilies

with their deep unfolded petals

curled outward and under

like perfect unshamed sex

flushed purple and aching

thin delicate shoots jutting upward

begging for touch

staining forever anything that brushes them

turmeric

a lily is a flower that has no guilt

heavy lids and potent smell

even as it decays

bowing like moth wings across a lampshade

it revels in itself

ecstatic and pungent

when i stop to think

the thing i think is empty

and i am caught by the feeling

that i have in me

a terrible undertow in search of an ocean

maybe life is meaningless

maybe life is full of meaning

maybe nothing means anything except what we decide to make of it

but

i've never needed anything to matter

i've never been driven by meaning

i am fascinated always by what is seen

and what is hidden

where is my anything

what are we if not each other?

and what am i, then?

what am i when you are no longer an option?

where do i go to find myself

and

will i be there

when i come looking

and

will it matter

maybe it's the jalapeno juice on my fingers

that has made my face skin burn

and the nearby flowers

are just a convenient excuse