I cry for the spring columbines and honeysuckles I never picked
to weave through your dark hair.

For the buoyancy of olden songs
now weighted with despair.

For the brush of budding branches
that I mistook for the caress of your fingers.

For the scent of detergent, sharp and clean
that slowly, faintly lingers.

And the empty space below my head,
that should have been pillowed below your thigh.

For the songs we sang together,
your verse now a lonely sigh.

For the dreams of lush-pink water and bubbles and steam,
that soak and taint our skin a rosy hue.

So though my lips I've painted tranquilly,
my murky thoughts have been consumed with you.

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