I wanna take all of the wilted petals of my should-have-beens
and press them between pages of old poetry within
half-filled notebooks I abandoned when the timing or the words
just weren't right.
And if I had a greener thumb,
I'd sow my could-have-beens,
and by summer, I'd be fruitful,
but I lack discipline.
You said I'm like a stubborn rose,
a bud tight like a fist, and always late.
And I take my bouquet of should-have-saids
and rap you twice upon your head,
like a Bronte sisters' heroine pissed at her mister.
I run through dark gardens in your head
where I lay down in beds of roses
where I linger,
pressing thorns into my finger,
like my lips to the receiver,
as the words wither away.
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