You're Picking Wildflowers for Her
I've been replaced,
yet I rest.
Fingers laced with another, time will open
your eyes.
With the rising dawn it will fall upon you; a
weight poured heavy in the night:
She's not me.
And she never will be.
And you'll realize it selfishly.
And I won't be in her eyes. And my mind won't
be in her mind. And you'll wait for
me to come, in the moments with
the sinking sun,
and I won't be there.
You pick wildflowers for her
to place in the vase of the void within you
where I once stood blooming.
A bouquet
made of all the days you wasted us away
in a careless decay.
Lean into her,
with legs tied tight to hold on to the thing
you mindlessly create.
Her skin will wear thin in what feels like
a moment, so hold it close
and hope it lingers longer than what
your wisdom would warn you. It'll make you
feel again.
And I'll pray.
And I'll ask for the Son to
shine brighter in the end, making amends
amidst this chaos.
That an eruption of beauty would undo me
and my anger. That the inevitable tears
will wash us all in
something sweeter.
And that the fragrance you paved
would fade to a
misted memory
glanced upon with the knowledge of
something greater.
