Bougainvillea

Vine curls around Tree, and pauses there breathing. It lays slack, a noose unnoticed, until with grins and cackles its shackles tighten. Tree pants lightheaded, stretches for lost rays. They crackle thick in the air above, but are a spilled cup, a dropped key.

Trees’ leaves tremble in a humid zephyr.

Vine wrestles, maneuvers branches to push Tree, a drowning swimmer, down, and lounges on the well lit stage. Vine’s face turns and greedy-gulps the sun.

Tree pines: its leaves falter, its branches bend. Its toes are pinched, roots shunted aside by Vine’s rampage underground. Energy that burned, pulsed, pushed slows. A tap now barely drips. Arms wither, and Vines’ legs plump.

Vine relishes in new audacity. Its legs roil with strength. They grow thorns. Black spikes on tendril fingers wrap Tree’s side and sink in, knives into flesh. The knives are hollow fangs that tear and pluck at Tree’s tender sap. Vine laps ravenous at holes bored in Tree’s trunk. Tree staggers empty, a husk held upright by what is sucking it to a dry death.

The absorbing fires: Tree sighs empty into Vines unforgiving and unapologetic smother: A blanket on a rage.

But in air above, pouring over empty rotting branches, sinuous appendages and teeth: blossoms. Blossoms pink, pouring, constellations that dip and play in a canopy of more and more blossoms. They drip through sun, filter past Tree and Vine and fall crisped onto the ground, paper thin hearts.

In the dying light, when life does rage, the tree aches. It presses up through shrunken roots and begs muted Vine to make this last drop crinkle open, one final blossom.

One final burst of flame.