BLOOM

flowers

     she was like the sun that forced flowers to grow in his lungs and every time she watered them, they would blossom (and so) he tried to speak but he would choke on the rot and ruin that grew and grew and grew

so he (achingly) wedged love sonnets in the gaps of his ribcage finding it increasingly hard to breathe and when (ever) he tried,
water would seep into his lungs drowning him
softly until they wilted and bled

he could imagine his words, dancing across her pale freckled arm, incoherent and urgent
and he imagined them to taste like the bitter remnant of taking honey by the spoonful,
(that is) until it starts to tantamount into a tempestuous storm,

and this storm would cause the leaves in his lungs to pirouette, (so) she would start to
reap and reap and reap, plucking the petals one by one

(until) his lungs would start to expand, forcing a swirl of fresh air to rupture the damp earth from which they bloomed
and he would heave (violently) the roots of wilted plants,

and he would gasp and gasp and gasp feeling the tickles of cherry blossoms and the hazy hue of the rising sun fill the flesh of his lungs,

(he thinks) she was just like the sun, for spring came and stole the coolness of his breath before he could open his mouth

and just like that the love sonnets wedged (painfully) in the cracks of his ribcage began to soil
for she planted seed after seed after seed preventing the words that desperately tried to skitter across his wet lips

for every time he saw her, he saw the sun,
that (forever) robbed him of his words

he loved her, he loved her
he loved her