My thumbs are stained blue,
and I could not cultivate flowers -
but you sir - brought your own sunshine,
You brushed away rainbows,
and threw me onto your canvas,
painting only what you saw, and I,
And in this decade past,
I planted a flower each Sunday;
a ritualistic memorial.
I traipse amidst a garden of rotten memories.
Still, today, I pray over your open grave
I place my dead flowers in your hand and wonder,
Are we even any older?
Or have our bodies just decayed?