My love for you blinks in and out
of the conscious field,
my body, my mind.
I’m trying to decide
if this is a sign,
so I peel back petals,
one at a time.

Touch me, touch me not,
Touch me, touch me not.

I need to see
where the stem connects
and nectar flows, but I can’t
pluck the bloom, and I won’t
promise anything,

which is ridiculous, I know.
If everything is a sign,
then nothing is a sign.
If it all demands such scrutiny,
shouldn’t I scrutinize
my scrutiny, too?

The sun burns at 3.85 x 10^26th watts
but tucks behind a single oak
and seems to disappear. I do not
lose sleep.