How much of the past.
I want to forget,
It’s been etched into me.

Even though I try to avoid it.
Behind my eyes.
It shows my true colors.

Wounded and wounding.
The end sleeps.
Mercilessly.

Cruelly blooming flowers.
Beautiful.
As they wither.

Let’s talk.
In a peaceful garden.

Worrying about.
The finite use of time.

Between.
“Forever”
and “Until.”

Indulging.
In my own tastes.

A single flower of jealousy.
Blooms.
Blooming.
Opening.

The fragrance distorts.
Blue runs across.
My temples.
Jealous.

How much of the impulse.
I wish to forget.
It has sunk into me.

Even when I resist.
My breath betrays me.
Showing my true callers.

A weekend of unremarkable loneliness
Attacks me.

Are the flowers that can fill.
the hole.
A flesh-rending illusion?

Let our heels click.
Lightly.

Because.
If we stumble.
We will falter.

We tread.
The thorny path.
With perverse force.

Starved.
For tears.
And blood.

A single flower of jealousy.
My heart.
Its roots.
My heart.

Stimulating my nostrils.
Sinking deeper.

The color of my gaze.
Biting into my heart.
Jealous.

I curse you.
So jealous.