The jasmine flowers

were not shy, they hung like lust on the evening air.

The weather sommelier is crafty that way, it comes

with no subtlety,

nor the way I often get

quiet, watchful.

I sucked it in, letting it bloom through my lungs,

 that moody dark fragrance.

Otherworldly distances. It will not be there tomorrow night

 unless the winds are in the right mood or callous with time.

I have felt no borders but this and the lines around my eyes

 that circumvent the night's time lapse.

As are the places that are etched in dreams, fused with

tender and ferocious flowers much like the one I mentioned above,

but all this talk of flora is only a distraction, a lull,

 for every storm that passes through me.