I only grow flowers with thorns.
Beautiful from afar,
Their petals softer than skin after shea butter,
But poison to the touch.

Their scent so captivating,
You can't help but search for it,
Only to be knocked out once found.

Those brave enough to pick up the stem
Will always regret it.
These thorns are razor sharp,
And they love to embed.

You left your home,
Your flowering tree
That bore you in the springtime.

Once released,
You drifted to the lake below.

Now on the water,
You drift again with the current
To reveal your whiteness

Your buoyancy
Creates gentle ripples

This picturesque scene,
Attracts attention—you're beautiful.

Your petals catch the sunlight,
Bringing feelings of tranquility
Unlike any other.

As the last of the flowers have withered,
And the guests have washed their clothes,
The cemetery has new bodies to entomb,
I still feel your presence very close.

For every waking morning without you on our side,
Demands a tough facade for every new dawn,
With responsibilities piling our plates,
I still hear your voice guiding us on.

At times where people have seem to forget,
And your space at the table has been quietly replaced,
Things and clothes packed neatly into boxes,
I still recall the warmth of your embrace.

For the world that we know will continue to revolve,
With the sun, the moon, and its skies ever so blue,
Your memory lives on in every piece of me;
I will choose to remember every last piece of you.

you call me petal,
suddenly im blushing
like a rose in the morning
before the sun knows to look away

your fingers brush against mine
and something blooms --
not loudly,
but like orchids
deciding its time.

you always smell like wild lavender
and stolen hours,
like the kind of spring
you never see coming
until it's already
wrapped around your ribs.

i used to hate snowdrops.
they're too open, too soft.
now i plant them into poems
because they remind me of you --
brave
enough
to bloom anyway.

this thing between us
isn't fireworks.
it's passion,
it's roots,
and patience
it feels like sunlight shared on a park bench
where your head finds my shoulder
and stays.

                                                            n
                                                   n           ­   u              
                           h                 y                    s      
                    g           t         k                     r      
                                         s                    e   
                   h                  ee              w        
                       g               b           o
                             i                   l            
                                    l       f
                                      n    
                                u      
                        ­   s

A wilting aster
Questioned Death
Whose body surrounded
With field of flowers—
Would they cry?
They answered,
Yes, though
You wouldn't know why.