i miss
when you spoke to me
in dialects of gardenias.
three weeks later,
the scent of earl grey clings
to you,
the groves of your lower eyelids
colored like unused teabags.
we can't help but agree that you're sick.
i miss
when you didn't remind us
of wilted flowers -
compost, waiting to rot,
swallowing the inevitability
before it became certain.
YOU ARE READING
This Is Where You Learn to Move On
PoetryThe random thoughs, the missing pieces of puzzles that I will never click together. Bits and pieces that won't end up in a manuscript. Highest Ranking: 16 in Poetry cover credits to the outstanding @eccentriphilia
