the months have dragged their feet past mine

each moment a decade longer

than the one before

the coldness of forgotten words

over tea with old friends

each time your spirit encounters mine

I’m reminded

of memories we created together

of those that you created alone

but invited me to

of your long legs moving no where

of mine planted firmly in nothingness

the silence of a man

who has never known it

and a quietness that’s too still

the smile that’s gifted to me

because anger was overpriced

you fight and serve in no war against me.

or of any class you say rules yours.

nostalgia is the disease that sickens you

I couldn’t harness the sun

so

I stole his lighter.

The closest I could get

to

starting a fire.

how foolish of me to conjure thoughts of ill towards hungry prides

knowing that they too must feast

and may they enjoy every meal they so righteously devour

and may they lick the ivory off the bones

and may every saint meet his beast.

I miss the void

that you have filled with the loveliness of your presence.

I miss the responsibility to loneliness

Versus the upkeep of loyalty

and I miss the empty smirks and meaningless flirting

versus the threat of

lifelong ownership.

I’d miss you too, if you were

to fade.

But the void would welcome me with open arms and flowers

Just the same as you.

Oh,

I think I’ve gotten her out of my teeth, now.

Grazed my ivories with my tongue to find her.

In search for her precise location.

She was somewhere stuck between my gums.

I took a toothpick

Then,

Took a second

With my index finger in assistance

I harvested her

And comforted her upon my nail.

Ah, there she is.

Restin’ on my finger until I fling her off.

Thank god,

She could’ve caused a cavity.

A cliché that shall be presented before you, yes. Yet, still a truth nonetheless.

Though the loveliness of what blossoms through spring’s showers has since been discovered and dubbed,

Not by I.

And though tales of what crawls from underneath the dirt in gardens have been narrated for centuries,

Not by I.

So, one can suppose, that now is the hour to unfold what triumphs a meadow poses.

My initial interest was born out of curiosity for what sprouts underneath me, yet,

I only remember the bee.

From what the hippocampus is reluctant to recall,

She was perched upon a single flower in the meadow.

As the occultness of flowers had only just been birthed to me, The Bee’s survival was practically dependent upon it.

The ownership of my gaze was briefly gifted onto her as she clutched onto a chrysanthemum.

Our presences were enclosed by gazanias, cleome gynandras, and Easter lilies.

Enthralled by the song of the buzz and the wondrous wings, my feet crept closer without instruction.

The Bee acknowledged my impulse to be adjacent to her and briefly took flight to loosen herself from my gaze.

Dispirited by The Bee’s decision to bequeath both the flower and my being,

My feet operated as a compass to guide the rest of the body home.

Unexpectedly, the sound of her song amplified near me once more.

Was it my sigh that prompted her re-arrival?

Or perhaps she possessed wonders of me?

Though humans and bees are so common,

She seemed to carry the same curiosity of me, that I’ve obtained for her.

I could crush her.

She could sting me.

With her return, time transformed from a construct to a precious object I intended to protect.

As we wandered, I told The Bee of my dreams while she flew around me.

As we both left the chrysanthemum lonely,

My legs grew weary of walking through the meadow, but her song rewarded me.

When others crossed our paths along our travels, I foolishly showcased The Bee.

Expecting them to be in full amazement and awe.

Their understanding of The Bee reflected a version I was yet to be enlightened with.

Without hesitation, they instantly began flailing their arms in the air.

Their bodies crafted a ring around her.

Encaging her as they attempted to swipe their hands towards her.

With neglected wailing for the safety of The Bee,

my hands mimicked the mouth of a venus flytrap, and cuffed her within my palms.

Felicity stumbled across me.

I could crush her

But she stung me.

In shock, I uncovered my hands.

Horrified at what The Bee had done.

Before the others could once again rage their war against The Bee,

Her wondrous wings steered her in the direction of the clouds.

Aiming for the blue that rested over us.

I attempted to call for The Bee,

Yet she traveled faster than words could escape my mouth.

It seemed that she and the sun were soon to be acquainted in ways that they should never.

But alas, she wouldn’t return.

She kept flying,

Inching closer,

Could the sensation of the increasing heat not be felt?

Maybe the scorching sun had disguised itself as a comforting warmth.

Maybe The Bee always dreamed of flying that high.

Perhaps the spirit of Icarus resembled hers, and it was simply her fate.

In a disgusted awe, I observed as The Bee kissed the sun.

Evolving to ashes.

Decaying as if she never was.

As specs of her drifted back to earth and laid in front of me, I wept.

Devastated by the sight.

The love that I dared to conjure for the bee,

Had to be swallowed with a thrush throat.

It was as if the ashes were tainted memories of the bee.

Though the skin of my inner hand was still irritated from where the bee had stung me,

I gathered and cuffed her ashes.

Holding them in my palms as she was once held.

While we were so near to exiting the meadow,

I dragged myself back to the exact locus where we first encountered one another.

Only to spread the ashes of the bee over the flower.

This otherworldly setting that gathered my amusement,

Is now a gravesite in her honor.

The voyage back to the flower had been accomplished,

Though at the post where it once was first confronted, laid ashes as well.

Ah.

The bee was the flower.

Intertwined as one, the death of the bee was the death of the flower.