The thick night hangs low.

We lie beneath heavy atmosphere,

pressed against the cool of bare tiles.

Swollen raindrops slap the roof,

smother your whispers

before they reach me.

You shape daisies with your tongue,

shower my body with plucked petals.

I till rigid rows—

only on paper

does my garden flourish.

For the dark moments

when I am draped in silence, here

I give you roses.