It's still too soon to grieve for it which died yet not
buried, the scent of dead flowers overwhelming me as I breathe each breath, a
struggle, the pattern of heart beats less from love loss and dread of unknown, each step I take, one stumbling
foot falll after the other, taking me further from the the mound of freshly dug
up soil into which we insist on burying it
How it died is still a matter of debate, whether suicide or
murder matters less than how love managed to turn into hate, too late to alter
or change course
there is only so many
times you can stab a heart until it ceases to beat; it won't wake up even to
the sweet smell of roses or the sad potpourri
it is something sweeter in reflection, in retrospect, an
illusion we mistake for tenderness, propped up by our own regret and yet we may
mourn for something that never was, apply it with petals to make it seem
sweeter than it could ever be
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