Hardening of the Lungs

The moment held in your palm, like a glass bell
shattered by ceaseless soundwaves, like air
breathed in by lungs grown softer than your kisses,
seething with purple pus, the color of envy and hisbiscus
petals floating in the water, looking almost asleep
in their peaceful decay, and your eyes -
the color of rotten leaves beneath my palms.

Like a flower afraid of each sun's rising,
which brings her closer to the moment
her petals will droop from her stem,
like the eyes of a lazy lover,
I learned to wilt beneath the harshness
of your seasons: harsher than the fibers
contracting the spaces in between your alveoli,
adding adagios and allegros to your breaths' music,
which has become almost like jazz:

A type of music I never cared for.