The flowers in my living room are wilting
But I refuse to throw them out
I remember the night I got them
More like a dream than a reality

Some days my house smells sweet
Often all I can smell is the rot
The summer heat is unforgiving
And dying quickly becomes dead

The fallen flowerpetals cover my floor
Visitors navigate between them to reach my couch
They talk about the weather and other trivial things
And they, very politely, don’t mention
The dead flowers in my living room

Facing the day with upmost pride,
Praising each ray of warm, caring, wonderful sunlight,
No matter the weather, they shine brilliantly, as children of the earth
Being happy about rain, these flowers only grow thankful, for what it's worth
Because these rain drops may look like tears, the scene may be sad,
No sound, but the gentle tapping of the falling water onto the ground,
but a lone standing Helianthus won't feel bad,
For it felt joy in this weather,such can be difficult for some to be found
A mysterious, yet beautiful lense, once the sky opens up a little for the sunlight to travel through again, inviting a rainbow through the sound of wind,
My pessimistic outlook of this weather, the raindrops looking alike tears, changed, through it's brightness, rather don't they look like jewels of some kind ?
My heart won't be drenched by sorrow,
Alike a helianthus, I shall look softly, gently towards the sky,
Towards the azure, ceiling beyond me.

~Umi

You are the bad dream I wake up from, which I sometimes need to see.
You are the smell of unidentifiable tiny flowers on the vines I walk past, but they comfort me.
You are the cold cool breeze that cuts my pale skin when I forget my sweater.
You are the soulful indie songs I stumbled upon one day when you were gone...the ones with hardly any views.  
You are the trembling tears when I lie alone, that shake my whole fragile frame—
Joy.
Anger.
Pain.

You are the hard sidewalk when I fall; catching me yet with a reminder that it hurts.
You are the sheet music I have to decipher since I’m so new at reading, but it plays so beautifully when it’s all together.
You are the lowest cello and the most spirited trumpet in the same orchestra, each their own solo.
You are the scared child lost in the mall, unable to see those faces around you—only the ones who left you there.
You are the strong unsettled ocean illuminated by my sunshafts through the dark clouds.
You are reddest, hottest fires through the veins of the soap boxer fighting for his passion.
You are the cotton candy dream I wake up from, which I sometimes fall back asleep to once more see.

You can’t be explained in any words.
You are just you.

The rose bushes are issuing their consistent melody,
With such unbearable benevolence.
I crave surprising him with their petals, the harmonizing scent blending with the vintage lingerie and a picnic basket full of sweets, freshly cut flowers and writing he inspired.
My life, my soul, the man I love more than I did two seconds ago.

She stands,
A hand on his shoulder,
Under green-shadowed
Arches.

His tears flow freely-
Fallen petals on
Stone
Cold
Ground.

Indigo-ivory blossoms
Soak up
Despair.

You used to be a lamp to nightly eyes,
       You are a star right now,
You used to be a rose so fine and nice,
        Where is that flower-brow?
You have become a woman, proud and pretty,
        Just like a crownless queen,
I cannot blame your growth and change and ties,
        You never had a vow.

In my arms are many flowers.
In these flowers are pollen,
for creatures that die by the thousands.

In this vase I blew glass for you,
are the flowers from my arms.
Their soft necks delicate.

In their necks is much water,
retented, resplendent, and alive.
Retaining walls hold the vase safe.

On the walls are murals and poetry,
a museum where we gather, direct,
and are the sole denizens of the art scene.

In the paints and words are mixed us,
a shade catalogued one hue higher
than the soft champagne years.

Navajo keepsakes, our flowers.
Our vases.
Our names and lands and the flowers.
Patches across a century of grass.
And centuries before we were born.

In my arms are many flowers.
Come breathe in their dust with me.
May what come next be soaked in honey.
But likelier we will cough and spittle.

In my arms are many flowers.
I should have left them there.
In the grass. As centuries past,
that allow them to root, and they grew.
And spread and spliced, and thrived.
In my arms are many flowers.
Do you regret the decision I made?

On the walls, in the paints and poems.
Moments like this of romantic display.
Your coughs and eyes,
My loudness at times.
Passion'd lips kissed into time fashioned
architecture to hold us.
In our home's arms we are two flowers,
in a gardened bed we plough, shared.
Let us bloom into bouquet,
because we, like the ones in my arms, decay.
Let us give a home to some threshed seeds,
in a safe vase, as a gift for you from me.