when I am sad, I turn to the lilacs.
I know that plucking them from their trees
will **** them, but I cannot seem to care.
if I do not pluck them, it will **** me.

my hands shake as I pull the tiny
chromatic flowers to my face. I breathe in.
the smell reminds me of my mother’s.
I wish that these flowers were blue,
so I could love them even more.

you once told me that lilacs only
give off their sweetest odor when
they are dying, when someone has cut
them from their trees and made
a decorative bouquet for their kitchen
table out of them. the same goes for me.

I watch them as they wilt and I try to find
a way to feel guilty but I can’t, because last
night they helped me fall asleep and nothing
was sweeter than dreaming of you, lying
on a bed of lilac petals, the purple peeking out
from under your curls, you staring up at me
like I was the only star in your sky.