( From Death's POV)

He touched her like a chapel door,
Worshipped beauty, nothing more.
Called her "wild," called her "divine,"
While mold was stitching up her spine.

Her laugh was teeth wrapped up in lace—
A fever carved into her face.
She bloomed too bright, too fast, too loud,
A garden growing through a shroud.

I saw her roots: they clawed through stone,
Fed on marrow, wept alone.
No rain had touched her, only bile—
She bloomed from silence, not from style.

But he—
He cupped her petals like warm breath,
Couldn’t taste the iron of death.
Wouldn’t look where soil bled black,
Where maggots danced along the cracks.

She was splitting. He adored.
She was drowning. He got bored.
When leaves fell off, he named it “change.”
When she grew strange, he called it “strange.”

But she was never built for spring.
She was a locked and rusted thing.
A flower that survived the flood,
With petals stitched from human blood.

And still, he stared. And still, he prayed—
While her bark peeled and skin decayed.
I watched her drop, piece by piece,
Until her breath became a crease.

He didn't cry when colors dulled.
He simply left. The air grew cold.
He never knew what fed her bloom—
The way she sang beneath the tomb.

I stayed.
I knew the song she’d hum—
The one that beckons worms to come.
I rocked her bones, I kissed her brow,
I laid her in the hollow now.

He never met me. Most men don’t.
They fall for flowers. Roots? They won’t.
But I’ve been patient, soft, and still—
The shadow crawling up the hill.

And when his autumn finally slips—
I’ll place a petal on his lips.
I’ll take his hand, as is my right—
The quiet gardener of night.