The way you fall there kills my heart, white tulip. So tragically beautiful. So subtly loud in your movement. The curve and slope of a dying flower. Like every good mother. Tilt and lilt in the standing water of a crystal vase. Sunlight spread in shattered spots of color through the cuts and chips from a well trained cracked sandy hand. Milky white blossoms smooth like mid-day tea lean like drunk trees in defrosted soil. Lean on crystal. On plastic. On whatever vessel can hold this unholdable center. Bending low like a bow to the floor. A bridge to the table laced with crumbs, spilt tea, paper scraps and fallen marshmallow petals. Dropping water from a leaky ceiling or open window glides, skates, slithers down your opaque weeping arch. You in your tragedy luring a perfect sphere to demise, to shatter from a center that cannot hold. Prepares me for Yeatsian prophecy. You, lovely flower, building my heart with your sweet promise to break it. And I'll look and look and look at you always.