A Solitary Bloom

My palms smell nothing like roses
But of
Withered petals
Drunk on the summer rain,
Whose veins had run into you,
Creeping and twirling around your heart.


They smell nothing like roses
As I sniff deep,
Drawing in the crumbled petals;
Edging its way into my nostrils,
Coalescing into a pregnant bud.


I choke,
I inhale;
Over and over and it blooms.
It reminds me of your sweatshirt,
Smelling of me,
That warmed me up
When loneliness felt like a
Cold blade,
Grazing on my skin.
And drags me to those days
I huddled
In my bed,
Interweaving my thoughts
With your words
Smelling of ink.
Of ifs and buts
Which slipped off the letter,
Against my grip,
Too hard to be gentle.
Crushing the early bloom,
As the letter breathed hard
Between my palms.


I choke,
I inhale;
Over and over and I wake
From this dream.
Crumpling my bedsheet together,
Too afraid to open my clenched fist,
As I
Watch the rhythmic heaving of his chest.
I sit by his side,
Too afraid to open my clenched fist,
And embrace him subtly like
Verses of a lullaby-
Letting those petals buried within my palms
Fall over him,
And letting him know how
A rose had once bloomed inside my palms
And a heart nourished it with love;
And for all.


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