wildflower honeydrops

rain from the sky.



your wings catch them,

******* them dry,

******* the

caramelized-love

you and i share.



she is buttered with

cocoa, with almonds,

with dry seeds of

pomegranates that

sink their way into the



sun-soaked river,

rosewater bleeding

into your skin, memories

flowing along with the

fuchsia flowers that

bake their ways into

vanilla-creamed

frosting.



stars of

crystallized honey lay

warm on my thighs;

the gooey butterscotch

picks up the stars,

throws them into the

sugared black coffee above

me.



he curls his fingers

around peppermints that

sprout from

leaves of minted

rich chocolate, his

mouth growing

calm from cooling

springtime that

fades into a deep,

strawberry-burst

summer.

✩✩✩
home
sweet
home
✩✩✩

i’m not
entirely sure
who all my
honeyed poems
are about.

but if it’s you,
i beg,
please come.
i’ve been waiting for
you since day
one.

twelve years old and
the biggest in your class,
you dominate the
playground - the
other kids tease you,
giant,
they say, but they
don’t know you’ll
come back to
win in the end.

invaded and
furious, steaming and
cracked, dry and
fuming from the
depths of your
core.
nicknamed crudely,
you wish for once
that we would
leave you alone.

melodies of
planets lay sprinkled
into your fingertips.

i play each one, pressing
my lips to the pads,
glowing as you lull me
off into a slumber full of

you, and of me, and of us.

cratered with
folds and wrinkles
tucked into your
grey skin. i kiss you
on the cheek, you
eighty-eight year
old woman, and
claim i cannot
wait for your
messages from
heaven.

sometimes,
you wonder why
flowers get picked if they’re
just going to die.

or maybe why they were
planted in the first place.

or why they are
potted,
soiled,
admired,
kept-up,
if all they’re
going to do is
drop petals and leave
you to clean up the
mess.

forgotten, as always,
you fume with a
dark blue aura. you
don’t mind the
quiet - the earbuds you
always have in provide
safety and security
from the atmosphere
of your family.

i’m the
type of person
to wake in the
middle of the
night
just to
jot down a good
story idea and then
not be able to
sleep
as the story
unfolds
on the
backs of my
closed eyelids.

grey;
light on the lips.

breathes out loud,
whispering,
snowflakes on your
eyelashes.

you brighten a room
with it, you darken a
mood with it,
you ask me if i
like it.

mending,
sealing wounds,
crisp air,
trembling minds -
soothed.

can you tell me
what you think of me
grey shoes?

we miss you.

rings of pleasure
surround your
twenty-nine year old
being, other women
jealous of your
beauty, of the ring you
so proudly wear
perched on your
left ring finger.

an ivory scoop of
sunrise tastes wonderful
when i’m with you.

i spin in
circles, dollops of
star-kissed pieces of sky
trailing down my
spine.

moment of fresh
exuberance excite the
possibility of
you and me, once and
for all.

ambrosia and nectar
taste sweeter when the
field is full of
hydrangeas, the colors
bleeding from lilac to
cerulean to
meadow-sweet salmon,

and you and i are
strewn upon them,
limbs entangled, our
fingers grasping for
our own slice of

sky.

lemon trees and a
strawberry breeze
taunt the winds of
you.

i pick a flower,
remember its
honey-tinted power,
and toss it in hopes of
you.

your cherry-kissed
hair and the
sea-blown air are the
definition of
you.

i cry into your
skin, beg for you to
love me from within,
and i’ll spend
peach-lit days with
you.

your name doesn’t
suit you - how rude of
people to assume that.
you are calm, a
light earth-sky
blue, the
peacemaker of your
large family. how
rude of them to
make fun of your name
when you’re the
only one keeping the
family together.

delicate and
precious, beauty
important as you
spin in circles, your
bluish-yellow dress
fanning out
around you in
silk ruffles. you are
visible to us all,
bright to the
naked eye,
stunning.

a handful of

sunflower seeds

sprinkled into my

empty, drought-filled stomach.



a bumble bee came to

pollinate the

garden that had

implanted itself into my

****-encased lungs,

snaking around my

ribs,

blossoming with

lilies,

daisies,

chrysanthemums and

roses of all hues.



no gardener tends to the

flurry of stems that

wrap around my wrists,

springing up my forearms and

swallowing my bare *******.



the grass grows

through my cheeks,

little pebbles sprinkling and

dancing across my nose and

underneath my eyelids,

dousing themselves in the

river that waters the

grass and

smooths the rocks,

flowing fast with

hot, salty waves.



i hadn't realized until the

flutter burned that

a sparrow had

lodged its way into my

heart,



banging against my

aorta-colored birdcage with

anger and longing to

smell the lilies and

taste the sunflower seeds,

but most of all to



unstick itself from

under my sewage-filled tongue,

away from the

pesticide white teeth,

to shoot out from

behind my dirt-encrusted

lips and break free of the

earth-churned stink of my

breath.



the sparrow and my

seed-filled stomach, watching you and

wishing as he sat

trapped inside my heart -

slamming;

spinning;

cracking;

aching -

that he could



swarm into the

breathened blue sky;

pour out from my

weeded lungs and

sickly stomach, and



spread his word-washed

wings,

painted with the

colors of the flowers that

we

had once planted together from the

sunflower seeds that

gutted him;



his own garden growing but

cutting off as he

spiraled under the

tepid spring sun;



dreaming.



just wishing,

suffocating,

swimming through

tubes and veins,

doused in

thick blood until he was

weighed down,

dragging,

drowsy from the

weight of the world that

seemed to rest on his soft,

minuscule shoulders.



red blood cells seeming to

win over the war that

raged in my body,

closing in on the

sparrow,

coaxing him away from the

delicious seeds and the

pleasure-filled garden until he



broke free at last,



leaving my body to

crumble into the soil as

the sparrow discovered something

much more desirable:



your heart,

and



together,

my sparrow beat

right alongside with

your robin,



swimming away from the

seeds and setting eyes on

what he truly wanted:



a field of sunflowers.