Her touch.
A match.
The start of an eternal fire,
Within
That nothing could quench.
Her lips.
A heart.
Beating inside,
Begging for release.
Her arms.
Enveloping me,
Similar to fresh linen
Draped over an otherwise barren mattress.
Her aura.
Reminding me of the sun in June.
A bundle of light,
Always bright.
Her voice.
Lulling me
Into a peaceful slumber.
Her.
I see now,
Just how much
That word means.
wilting flowers
I don’t understand
The conventionality of flowers.
Why are they such a symbol of love?
After a week or two
You wilt alongside them
You too droop when you see them.
They are as temporary as
The love they are given with.
Or maybe the love they never had.
A bouquet of
Snapdragons
Tansys
Marigolds
Purple Hyacinths
Two-Toned Carnations
Yellow Roses.
They look beautiful in the moment
But only because you
Accept them at face value.
You let them sit in a vase
Thinking the water would stop them from wilting
The same way you think that receiving them
Would save your relationship.
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