somewhere in the city there is a man bearing
a dried flower in his heart
wondering where it all went wrong.
He wonders where the words that
she spoke with such conviction,
disappeared off to.
There's another dried flower
embedded in the palm of the girl who
wrote so many poems about him
that she ran out of space on the walls of her mind
and forgot how to speak about anything but.
The same man in the city who places
that weekly order of those sunshine yellow lilies
to the apartment three yards away
for the girl that no longer cares for him,
nor his smile
nor the tender petals that she recklessly destroys with
the same hands that
used to caress the arch of his back ever so sweetly.
He wonders when the flowers will cease to grow
in the crevices of his mind
when the soft pink and green and dangerous
violet will stop poisoning his musings
and for when he can breathe
and the left of the middle
will stop incessantly aching for
the warmth of her sunshine yellow hands
around his entirety.