was a sticky mess dripping slowly
down the broken walls of
what we called home, and i

the ever so buzy bee who hover
to stare from a distance remain
as my gut twists of hunger

for the continued days
of work: measuring the rooms
that would strategically contain

our— my, remaining efforts
in keeping this symbiosis a force
enough to drive through

the blistering storms and past
what you thought was the drought.
but this, is the fallout

where the flowers cease to bloom
and the sun grows weary
to shine on leftovers

of what we called was home
as honey drips ever so slowly
into a painful mess to clean.