Metamorphosis

I have decided that love is not possible
between the bee and the flower.

I tried, swaying on painted legs
perfecting a palette of every hue,
some would say gaudy.

Perfumed and pouting I fluttered,
I needed you.

Don't sit under the apple tree with
anyone else but me

but you always supped on the purple
one and sated flew away.

Consumed, I am deserting the fecundity
of colour, developing a fondness for
fermenting.

I crave the comfort of a malodorous
descent into a silent Sunday,
living on my back.