I leave chrysanthemums
scattered at your feet on tile floor
like the pencil shavings piled
on your desk.
"The flower of death,"
with Rorschach roses on your knuckles
and the hint of a warrior
in the line of your lips,
you sketch bears with open jaws
and black-shadow eyes
in the margins of your math book
with permanent ink.
The hooded abyss of your gaze
you can't bring yourself to say:
Love is short
and prone to fading.
It's a good thing I don't mind breathing life
into negative spaces.