Jughead is the Worst Wingman Ever

You cherish petals and the stems and all
the soil that clings between the roots. You care
for every bud and green aphid that crawls
beneath its leaves. Your love is plenty. Life

is plenty – good enough to fill the world
with winds that sing cool and sting like a knife
upon the skin. What flowerpot would shake
fists at a breeze that bears the seeds the curled

lip of an empty vase rejected? Break
this terracotta shell. Its shards first burst
upon the potter’s wheel. But do not tear
your heart out with the same fingers. They’re cursed

to love and love and love as dark moons pry
in vain and stars dance clockwise in the sky.