Your skin is a map
holding an endless
field of wildflowers;
each with a name
and a story buried
within its roots.


I planted compass
roses in your eyes,
navigating in circles,
along the path of
dying stars you drew
with your fingertips.


I plucked the weeds
growing wild under
your lashes, tamed
the rainshowers
flowing down your
cheeks, called it love;


like i knew the word.
But seasons change,
temporal flowers die,
and all we are left with,
are blooming wounds
forever denied of healing.
© Icy Belen Tumayao