my neighbor likes her fresh laundry smelling like flowers.
the scent wafts through the air and hurts my lungs as i lay inside my room making what i sometimes call poetry.
today, i dont like it.
it reminds me of dying.
it reminds me of the flowers
that people who love me  will someday leave by my grave.
or even the wild ones that will grow out of it.
maybe there will be plenty
or maybe there will be none.
but today, the flowers had waltzed into my room
and people are dying fast enough.  
Today, im closing the windows shut.