Jasmine

My ex lover prided herself in the cliché of

overwatered flowers like how she loved me:
with too much passion and lust and fantasy.

She gave too much, she said,
forcing and drowning me dead.

The truth: i was ripped apart and ground
for her flames to engulf around
as she forced just the smoke of me down her lovely throat.

It was in truth an addiction,
to dispel any confusion.

My jasmine, on the contrary,
has loved me so differently:
as a woman, a human being,
not a metaphorical seedling.

This is why we last:
she loves and I love in all of this reality,
not in old frescos and self-indulgent poetry.