Pleasure or Pain? (Poetry)

love and its endeavors

i. falling in love
she is written in the flowers
the floral words oft surround her
silver slips of hosta tips
grow underneath the bower

crocuses to light her way
oft hidden by a grazzy haze
illuminate her rosy hearth
the entrance to her open heart

her bouquet boasts fertility
luscious blooms, her ripe bounty
plentiful hydrangea clippings
overflow abundantly

she walks the halls of galleries
to pause and gaze wonderingly
at the blossoms on the wall
georgia's poppy; the siren's call

she gazes through the glowing leaves
of the sweet summer's white birch trees
she drinks fizzy faux cocktails
and dreams beneath a golden breeze

warm light falls in showers
as she tends to her flowers
soaking deep into hot skin
cool grass between fingers thin

she is written in the flowers
the floral words oft surround her
silver slips of hosta tips
grow underneath the bower

ii. change
blossoming bud
in your delicate, sweet beauty
you once grew wildly
weaving vines, sprouting blooms;
no crack or crevice unoccupied by you,
my sweet, blossoming bud.

years of growth cut by a severed root, and
painfully, you withered away
until a skeleton of your floral masterpiece remained;
a hollow reminder of what used to be.

blossoming bud, please do not wither so.
it's been eons since i've seen your beauty.
your vines beg to run through my heart,
entangling me once more.

iii. regret
worn leather and trees
taller than time.
i run my fingers
along the curves,
tracing the words of wisdom
that still linger.

i wove our stories together
carefully and with more thought
than you were willing to put in.

bathed in sunset and
thick, sweet honey,
dripping from your teeth;
you made promises
you knew we couldn't keep.

bitter like coffee,
or a dash of cinnamon;
you burn my lips and throat,
and i regret every touch;
every last taste.

iv. resentment
i can still feel your name lodged
in the back of my throat
like a half-swallowed pill.
you are the medicine,
you are the disease, and
you are the child-lock
on every little orange bottle.
i suppose that makes me the child
with eager and empty hands;
the child who sucks on
the sugar that coats malignant capsules.
i am the child who pries away
the plug of the poison.
i am the child who gulps down your hate
like shrapnel syrup.

v. acceptance
forever wasn't destined to
describe human connections.
these materialistic bodies
will fade; grow old and apart.
for one day, we'll die.
so, i don't think we are to
expect to last forever.
because even if we spent
a thousand lifetimes with
connected souls,
there will come a day
where we are no longer
with one another.
i suppose i'd like to believe
that instead,
forever means our memories.