Champa

It’s cute when you clip plumerias to your hair,

It brings out the hue of those henna stains. 

It’s cute when you click pictures of blooming daisies,

Their ardent blush reflects your own; 

But let me get it out of the way and say:

You’re not the blossom. 

You’re the endless green everything, holding up the coloured ones. 

You’re the place where the flowers feel safe enough to bloom,

In the strangest cities,

In unfamiliar neighbourhoods,

In the middle of nowhere,

Exhausted after feeding the bees. 

You’re not the blossom, no. 

You’re the intoxicating infinity wrapping around it like a blanket,

Turning her mess of hues into a sophisticated assortment. 

Those delectable daisies are dainty, sure,

But let me get it out of the way and say:

You’re not the blossom, no. 

You’re the kind of inescapable greenery worth returning to every time— 

Inevitable,

And painfully instinctive.