Flowers
On the side of the road, near the place she took her last breath.
They set some tulips in a little pile.
The warms of spring imported to the scene of death
Near the chain-link fence where they will no longer complain about homework.
They planted some honeysuckle.
On top of the grave he asked for.
She left a bouquet of roses.
Another bombing.
Another shooting.
Another group of children dead.
Send more flowers.
Goodbye Bugsy
We had a deeper connection than you’d ever entertain
You mentioned details about your past and perspective
you usually reserve only for the safest and the closest
I made my feelings and intentions perfectly clear
You warned me against you and I didn’t listen
It was in the spring when you walked away
I made the same mistake I always do
Writing our happily ever after before you agreed to be mine
Cotton in the Snow
The sun set behind the rim of mountains
on the western horizon while I wasn’t looking.
It’s always the snow crunch beneath my boot,
counteracted by the warmth of a boy.
Tears form icicles that would have been avoided
if only this had been love.
The heat from his wet kiss convinced her
until her heart iced over once more.
Just when I had found my true love,
I had to step backward.
I still feel your moist warmth on my skin,
on my lips,
yet there are bars wrapped all around you.
You are in plain sight,
but as I reach toward you,
everyone else pulls my hands behind my back.
Tears rise to the surface and I am desperate for breath;
I’ve never loved like this before.
The snow serves as cotton to absorb my howls
and moans of sorrow.
All that could possibly save me is your touch.
You have taught me what it is to solve the spring.
Each touch you impart from your skin to mine produces another moment of renewal.
Every word you allow to escape from your lips to my ear,
your breath warm on my skin, supports the love you bring to me.
With each impulse, you wrench the love right from and into my heart.
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