Ancient tales of flower ritual

''I'll have to fall asleep with roses in my hair,'' she said.

The evening Jasmine didn't bloom as she had hoped,
it was withered and smelled less like
semen,
which always aroused her

curiosity-

but this time,
the garden roses would have to suffice.

So she lay in her bed,
pink petals strewn atop her auburn curls -

but the sickly sweetness of over-blossomed roses did nothing to calm.
She tossed and turned,
since the weight of her lover was in a distant land -
drinking bourbon by fireside and communing with
the beings from beyond.

But the restlessness wasn't about his body, it was in deep correlation to her own.

"How can I ever release?" She wondered.

She found her answer in the flower's eye, the water beads still holding moisture in the thick soft bristles of it's inner womb.

"I must do this myself!"

So she grabbed a bloom from the silver carafe on her bedside table and started to stroke herself slowly until light moans oozed from her delicate lips.

She fantasized of warm dripping oil - waterfall gasps - and her lovers deep laugh echoing inside of her.

Pleasure.

Fully in the moment - in full deep breaths - 

Moaning and laughing

as is the only way.

The co-mingling of sounds sent sparks to places she has never felt before
and
then
as if infinity unleashed all the tightness,
the pomegranate burst from within herself.

The stars danced-
her hands loosened -
dropped,
heavy.

finally.

Legs didn't feel like legs, nor rocky feet.

newness - softness, something so grande.

As body melted into pillow she sang sweet songs of gratitude and gazelles


and he kissed her soul across the sea,
honoring all of herself, her strength, her delight
and her really pretty face.