Roses In Spring

His voice has the same qualities as a locomotive
words engorge my jugular to be so easily cut across.
The girl who is caretaker of this soul, she fails.
She doesn't light cigarettes or catch the residue of smoke in lemony stains upon the walls.
Why poison your lungs?
When oak lives in the backyard that kills your kneecaps.

Standing in a powder blue dress
matching the sky, matching the call I'm making.

He never responds in prose,
just in the growth of roses.
Handfuls of amanita phalloides in my palms
trade pulling my own roots
for mother nature's.

Knowing he sees me as I pirouette towards my own demise.
Never responding,
dusting myself off,
gave an earth shattering grin.

As a younger girl I believed in me,
and he existed as well as honeybees did.
Cherry blossom lips became mine as I grew older,
and my eyelids painted like a hummingbird's feathers
pretty boys and girls asked about the weather
and I awaited your response, but it never comes.

Just in the vague appearance of the sun.