Jasmine and I lay in the flowerbed,

amongst the buds about to bloom.

We moved intricately,
crushing shoot

pressing seed.

Watching as petals fell.

I tasted Jasmine,

pricked her.

Allowed scents to fill senses.

Flesh ripped by teeth and thorns.
Our roots penetrated,
impacted.

Pain was no dam.

We blossomed,

allowed our colours out.

Only Jasmine flowered in that bed.

© James Butler 2011