Jaden Fong

Published in Transcendence

1st Place Winner for “Loving” Category

I am outside of your door,
bouquet of flowers in hand,

plucking porcelain petals.
They love me, they love me

not. My fingers are bleeding
nectar, cherry juice racing

down the ceramic stamen,
along the terracotta stem.

I am a gnat flying too close
to a puddle of sweet red wine;

I am a moth slowly dangling
from cobweb gallows.

I am content with being
fossilized in that drink,

with being laid to rest
in that scarlet tar. I am joyous

at the thought of hanging
onto you, onto every word

that carefully escapes from
your hungering mouth.