His smile
Is precious
We're young
But not reckless
Sweet not sour
Love is developing
More and more
By the hour

I often find ways to cherish the lost things in the world,
whether that be from nature
or from your throat. The way something can metaphorically escape you is something
I can't quite word right
through scribbles inside a broken journal late at night under a fire
that I wish came from your lips. I believe loss is at the core of my existence,
and i don't know if that makes me morbidly poetic or ordinarily insane. Incidentally,
my lungs are filled
with forgotten love songs
you sang to me when I was feeling muted in a world full of incomprehensible sounds
and my ribs are made from collections of old words from past lives, and whether it came from broken branches or foggy days,
i still don't know. Most people want to keep things forever and cherish their pulsing cores,
but i have learned that relying
on water from another puddle will only lead to your own drought. Maybe that's why I seem
to be lonely in a world
full of silhouettes waiting to be filled with something other than thoughts that consume them secretly,
ones that have guaranteed them that someone will plant fresh flowers in their dying skins every chance they get. I, on the other hand,
have accepted the fact that death is a part of the Earth and cannot be controlled,
no matter how many pleas I send to God with grasping palms under judging lights in hospital buildings and bedrooms. I tried to tell you this,
but you ignored
my philosophies and continued to refer to death as the five letter tragedy;
the inevitable loss of everything everyone hopes and dreams for. Luckily,
i know that when you reach for the stars,
you don't always get the
constellations you wish for,
and sometimes, you don't even get anything
but a polluted atmosphere filled regretful exhales and apologies.

It has been
seven months, and i
still don't like nature anymore
because it isn't filled with
the branches from your ribs and
the fallen leaves from
your head. I can't
look outside without
craving every part of
your forest in ways i can't seem to
quantify in tear ridden pieces of
paper i always threw away.

Every inch of your bones is
made from the richest soil that i
yearn to plant my dying flowers in, but they just
never seem to
grow as much as you wanted, and i
am sorry. I can never apologize enough for
the countless hours i
wasted trying to find patterns in
your twigs that were always going to
be random. I have always found
hope in the littlest things,
especially the way you said my name
in a tone only Shakespeare
could have described.

It has been a while since
you visited my garden. My meadows
are now filled with
the weeds stemming from the stained
words you said to me that
last night. I always thought
you'd be the one to provide
sunshine to my plants,
but i always mistook your burning
hands for the Sun i suppose.

Now your memory is like a
fog that i can't run away from,
and no matter how many times i
pound at my dirt and
fertilize my trees with other sources,
I seem to only grow from
you.

-MB

When more isn't enough,
consider less.