‘Say, what’s your shade of Dahlia?’ He says, dragging the sun along with each syllable. I’ve never really known a Dahlia, I think maybe once a long time ago. I want to tell him purple because it’s royal, or red because I’m full of life. He sees my dreams about Oahu in every blink, the beaches only I’ve ever really seen before. This is the only secret I’ve ever kept from him. The tulip seeds were an offering into a world I am not yet worthy of. I wonder if he knows I breathe poetry like air, I am the aftermath of an artist’s death. I am what follows after a lyricist takes their last breath, I think he knows this all too well.