i'm staring at the glass vase on the table.
the bouquet of flowers have decayed, and
yet i look at them longingly, visualizing
them alive and beautiful, with me and you braiding them into flower crowns or tucking them behind each other's ears or writing poetry about them. but that's so far away
and so improbable.
these flowers died almost instantly.
they were overwatered by the tide, and
no matter how long i stare, they'll
continue to be dead.
in order to combat this intense guilt and discomfort rising and falling in my chest like wild ocean waves — waves that washed over the bouquet and drowned them — i grab the flowers and toss them outside.
their crumbled remains blow in the wind
and return to the earth.
the wind whispers, "sorry," or maybe i do.
i'm not sure if it's to the flowers, me, or
you. tears slide down my face as i shake
images of flower crowns and poetry
and a love that could have been
f r o m m y h e a d .
if only
i didn't
h a v e a n
o e
c a
n
in my stomach
a sea full of
naïvety
and
a n x i e t y
all i have now are memories
that didn't happen but
could have and a high
tide in my
h e a r t
but i don't mind all
that much. i am fire and
ocean and that's okay.
my guilt floats away in the
wind and i can finally
breathe again.
YOU ARE READING
recycled poetry
Poetry❝i wish i was writing something special, but these words have been used before and there's no originality to it at all. i'm just reusing phrases until they're worn out, like musty library books or hand-me-down clothes.❞ from ❛hand-me-down poetry❜ i...
