Bed of Orchids

The paradox of love is the devil.
Though he walks softly in the night.
He's abrasive like a hot kettle.
So I'm sure to hold him right.
His hands..
More gentle than growing petals
Reaching up in a shadowed incline.
His touch..
Like a burning water
Drop after drop under the moon shine.
He grips my hair; texture of a flower
In the garden, we stand, dead of night.
Him and I.
We are iridescent in this bed of shadows.
As are the orchids whom whisper from all sides.
The sound is heard by the soil.
The thought is peacefully intense.
I grip at the ground though it's nowhere to be found.
By the roots he has ripped my existence.

~ B