A butterfly quilt surrounds the embrace. A pair of lovers hide from the sun. Arms intertwined come undone. The meadow sweetens the air. Limbs fall from within their cocoon; legs find placement on the wild flowers.

“Forever is that way,” says a sleepy man. He points into the meadow. A man at the back of the truck bed pulls on a sweater.

“Which way,” he says. His lover grabs his face and shows him—an endless expanse of long grass and vibrant flowers.

“Don’t you have work at nine?”

“Fuck work, run with me.” Boots slipped on and loosely tied. In his underwear, he started to walk. His partner throws a pair of denim jeans.

“What use? I could never get them over these boots.” he kneels and sniffs a purple flower. The large petals hide the features of his face. For seconds he breathes freer than most. Nose unblocked by the noise of the world.

To join his lover, he jumps off the back of the pickup. His red sweater was paired with black trousers. Eyes perked up at the horizon.

“Wasn’t there an overpass that way?” he says. His lover’s face was deep in a new orange flower.

“Hey, flower child,” he says as he walks into the meadow. Sweetness overwhelms him. Each foot sinks further than the last. The man lets out a cough; he gasps and hacks. Hands claw at his throat. He looks back to the pickup. His man sat up in their bed. Hand waves and mouth opens,

“Do you believe what you see?” Spoken by an unfamiliar voice. Red sleeved hands hold the stem of a flower. His nose plunges deep into its core; Breath after breath, his nightmare ends.

Alone in the bed under the covers. A stretch before he sits up. Fingers wipe the sleep from his eyes. In the meadow, his lover kneels in the flowers. Captive, he pulls at a stem.

“Are you okay?” He yells, stood now in his underwear. The sweet stench snaps at his senses. He falls backwards and grabs a T-shirt. Quickly he ties a makeshift mask. An attempt to stand leaves him dizzy.

A red sweater lays in the meadow. Flowers of many colours feed on the man, heads stuck to his flesh like plungers.

“Billy!” he screams. Flowers from further away drag their roots to the feed. Hungry heads turn towards the noise.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck. I’m sorry, Billy,” he mutters. Smash, the back window breaks. He moves through the jagged space; blood falls from his scalp onto open wounds on his body. He searches the cab: cups and fast food bags thrown aside.

“Where are they? Where are they?”His arm back reaches through the hole, and It rummages through a pile of clothes. A pair of denim jeans have their pockets delved.

“Fuck!” the man peaks his eyes over to Billy and his black trousers. Billy left dry, hundreds of vibrant flowers march towards the truck. He shakes his head. He unlocks and kicks the door open. He secures his mask and runs away from the meadow. The gravel road cuts at his feet. He cries, but he doesn’t stop.