I touch a bruised peony beside you. I finally understand right person wrong time.

I see you inside the midnight flower market before I prepare my face.

I notice rosewater along my wrist clinging to the silence around us.

I recognize a bruised peony before I trust your smile.

I remember why I need timing to stop deciding for us.

I stay as the seller wraps flowers for an address I do not know.

I let my voice cross the distance first.

I watch your eyes move toward the delivery alley instead of mine.

I recall your forehead resting against mine after midnight.

I hate how tenderness survives the agreement that ends it.

I refuse another beautiful description of right person wrong time.

I feel your silence choose its first casualty.

I fold my fingers around a bruised peony beneath the table.

I listen as you describe the life around your answer.

I stop translating after I learn that our love is ready while our lives are not.

I feel grief enter before the sentence ends.

I walk to the delivery alley with your footsteps behind me.

I hear you ask me not to leave yet.

I look up and find your mouth too near mine.

I let hope rise once, against everything I know.

I reach for you inside the midnight flower market, but our love is ready while our lives are not.