the hyacinths in your eyes are all
i see now. they once 
shook in your hands and lived
as the wind beat our love to tears - 
our blood the frightened 
petals, brilliant and wet. 
i smell each petty
flower, sitting
by my window. the pane lightly
cracked with age and the tepid 
evenings of young love's humidity. 
outside, your bones
are burning below the surface
of an oak tree.