Amaranthine (Poetry)

Grief

The shadows whisper against my hips
climb up my sides
and wind their way around my ribs.

Have you tasted grief before?
It sticks to your mouth like molasses
coating your tongue in its acrid taste.

I grew roses for your grave
but all of them have wilted
and I'm left with yellow husks
that wouldn't even please Van Gogh.

(Pass me a glass of turpentine, would you?
I'll dissolve these memories into ash)