premier danseur, ethereal

i’d bought you three white peonies—a dollar apiece—for after you stumbled offstage, a spotlight still staining your skin and wind still clinging to your limbs, swayed and still swaying to the rhythm of a blue-tinged grimace; i waited countless knife-tipped breaths shivering against the a.c. in a vibrant sundress, sole reverberating off of brick with each second you don’t emerge, fingernails going green as i pressed accidental creases into each stem before i knew that you’d swept out the back exit, metal door slamming gently seconds after your fingers had released it and immediately, i picture the peonies at the head of your bed, delicately placed in a shiny mug that you filled halfway with water; every morning they’d imprint themselves behind your eyes and lighten everything you’d see, and every night you’d let their wilted petals blanket your palms. they’d keep you still enough to sleep.