I want to write poems about sunflowers
And the feeling of the wind on my face, hitting with a whiff of ocean air
I want to write these things
Because these things have never felt so distant
I want to remember them
Sunflowers and ocean air and sour skittles and a golden retriever's soft fur
I want to bring these things back from their ruin on the stone table
People say I look different
Like I could tumble over with the hit of an ocean breeze
She says I've grown so tall
Like the sunflower stalk she tore down in a drunken rage
He says that this is what love really is
Like the cliché of a Hollywood romance that doesn't want to be cliche
They said I was beautiful
Like golden tears would wash away pen ink tattoos of my sins
She said I could make her so very happy, but she couldn't ignore the tugging pain
Like sour skittles with a sore throat
I cannot write as if my days consist
Of sunflowers and the feeling of the wind on my face, hitting with an ocean breeze
I cannot write as if I still know these things
But I can write about the days when I was overflowing with those feelings
I can write about the roots of those sunflowers
And the salt in the wind
I am content with pressed lilacs and hurricanes
At least I am not tumbleweeds and earthquakes
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I do not want to become tumbleweeds and earthquakes
Empty chasms and shouts of dust
If I crumble away into the dirt that I rose from, there will be nothing left for you to bury
My eulogy will be nothing but deep sighs and clearing throats
The omnipresent pull of a stranger's grieving gaze will drag me into the grave
But there's the potential that the art I make in my own ruins will be phenomenal
Like the enchanting and chilling attraction of the Roman Coliseum
I will fall and this façade will fade away, the screams in my hallways will be silenced, the blood flow will end, and my prisoners will pry open gates with clawed paws
I will have destroyed myself
I will be a corpse with echoing hallways and spider webs over door hinges
But people will marvel at me for centuries to come