I never promised to be a marigold 

A crimson compliment to the beating sun 

The ethereal flower that does not cry

Always heated, rarely sunny

With grayish petals that become luminescent against the silver stars 

Belonging to the dusk sky, exploding before another day 

Like glittering shrapnel made of promises and you

good friday.

i think i let it go
when the crescents
were too decayed
to hold in my two
burned and inadequate palms
my hands were not
the proper reservoir for
a love too spoiled

we do not only exist
when the tide is high
ours is not a devotion
that only fares when the
weather is soft and warm
against skin that is so
freckled and tanned by
soaking into the heat

our love went to war and lost
our strategy dreadfully misaligned
too many words, too heavy
there was abundance yet
we were still starved

i will carry you with me
in all the disorderly elements
that compose the layers of chaos
of the woman i am, this lotus
burrowed amongst daffodils and
concrete and lies and songs that
i will never be able to hear again. 

oh look, it is april.
another spring.
new soil.
wildflowers.