by june, each flower's fragrance
reminds me
of the
softness of your dark t-shirt:

my hands
drifting over
it,
drawing
little valleys;

my chest
pressed intensely
against yours,
making
little wrinkles.

where has our world gone?
by june, all we can do
is remember
the flowers we once planted, now long-dead:

their petals dispersed
into the sun-drenched breeze.