untitled xvi
It’s such a cliche, really—it’s raining
the morning after I leave you. I’m watching
the pink flowers nod in unison
as the dog we shared runs circles
around my childhood house.
I’d like to say I feel dead inside without you,
and yes I couldn’t sleep at all
thinking if I shouldn’t have gone.
The truth is I feel like those flowers,
shrugging off the weight of your love—
nourishing and drowning. It’s not
like I didn’t love you enough,
it was more like, I couldn’t continue
loving you the way the rain loves the flowers:
constantly beating, a painful nod
over and over again.
