Bloom, Shifting

4.

4.

Elliot always smells like fresh cut flowers.

When she isn't studying,

in a flurry of translucent buildings,

she cuts stems and organizes

bouquets for lovers

and friends

and the dying.

I can tell a funeral order

from a wedding, she says.

I can't stand calla lilies anymore,

she confesses. They smell like

death to me.

Her apartment is covered in sketches.

The fridge flutters with

papers pinned for later.

Her dog is usually asleep on her feet

as she works in her nest of

paper and ink.

Draw me a city,

I said one day, feeling

especially bold.

I'll do more, she promises.

She catches my hands off her shoulders,

kissing each fingertip.

I will draw you a whole world,

and I can see it, the world

she would create for me,

when she removes each layer with such care

I feel like the ancient structures she loves.

Under Elliot's hands

I become en exoskeleton,

the bare bones of a building

she can tear down with

a single touch.

You're sweet, she whispers.

I like how you respond to me.

She traces bones with her words.

Blushing is second nature now. I say,

I've never done this with anyone,

not a soul.

It is a confession

I know she will treasure.

When do you go home?

I hear the sadness

vibrating in her voice.

Next week. She curls into me.

I wish you could come,

see my trees.

I do, too. Elliot holds me tighter

than anyone has ever held me,

tighter than Ma.

But my parents...

they need me.

Elliot never says

that she hates calla lilies because

when her brother died,

her house drowned in them,

like he drowned in the lake.

Do you miss him?

I place the words in her hands

as they explore my face,

for what must be the hundredth time.

Every day, Ava.

She breathes me in

like I breathe in the forest.

Every damn day.