In my hand are the two red roses that I'd bought from a
Grocery store with the few spare dollars I had in my pocket.
The heat of the summer was heavy and dry. My skin burned underneath
the sun as it walked we me to my destination--to you.
Pebbles from the dirt trail kept getting caught in my sandals, the
grass crunched under my feet as I met with you face to face.
The weather worn bronze headstone with your name, your sunrise and sunset,
and the voids you left was covered strands of mowed grass blown by the wind.
I wiped them off with the back of my hand, the metal was hot to the touch.
I laid the roses down--one diagonally across both bottom corners--to decorate
the only image of you that can vivdly picture when I want to see you.
The only image of you that isn't missing a face--the only memory that isn't fading.
I'd make you pretty, sit beside you in the empty graveyard
while the grass dug into the back of my thighs and tell you stories.
Get lost in complaining about life and wait for advice that I will
never receive. From a voice that I barely remember.
I'd tuck my knees into my chest, holding myself in the
embrace that I wish was yours. Longing for the touch of a ghost,
I let the presence of the sun be your substitute, if only for a moment,
I wanted to be wrapped in actual warmth. If only to feel protected.
ВЫ ЧИТАЕТЕ
Where the Flowers Bloom Unwatered
ПоэзияA collection of poems written throughout several stages in life, journeying through the human condition through the lens of black girlhood and black womanhood.
