Desire is language overrun. Spilled paint. A mouthful of fruit. I have changed the canvas. Show me the delicate flowers. Enact. I have pulsed from red to depth blue. Blood flower. This is poetry searching through skin. Damp. Rhythmic. Imaginary. Shh. A woman must split herself for this. Fragrant poppy. Pillow book. Sliced apple. I paint a name blushing red. Silence the canvas. Refuse you. I write out the forbidden syllables. This has everything and nothing to do with skin. I’m writing past you. Desire is white heat. Blue veins blistering. Thirsty. Wanting. Reopening. Scent blossoming. Skin burning to a violet haze. This is the canvas of desire. Skin. Damp touch. Current. I have lost myself in this garden before. The split and separation. We refuse sweet fruit. We want to believe this wanting won’t diminish us. Whisper. Obsess. Say these words. Say them. White sheets. White. We are pushing toward the edge. There is no us. There is just us. The wanting. The words. The blossoms.