between the gravestones

marked with names

i have long forgotten

the poppies grow

they are the same color as the cherries

on his lips

lips made of lace and snow

as soon as his warmth is gone

his touch melts on my skin

as though never there

and it is that cold i long for

he calls me darling

the word is smooth on his tongue

coated in honey, like the daffodils

bleeding through his eyes

he drawls the word

darling

like it is scrawled across his heart

and with each whispered tone

he draws it over mine

the pretty pictures painted black

with each ashen stroke he brushed in

bursts of colored sunsets decorated by artists

far above our heads

dipping, tilting, i can taste his breath

warm, and candy woven

my scarred hands held between soft palms

tracing the length of my fingers

curled into his shirt

begging

stay

darling, calm down

his pretty words like those poppies

marigolds and pink roses

darling

he hums against my neck, growing bouquets

of purple orchids and blue petals

they bloom so intricately with his

between my toes, my lips, my lashes

in every crevice of a heart beating for his words

darling

am i pretty, am i pretty

darling, you grow more beautiful each day

every corner of his mind

he says, come in

these doors are yours to open

he knows all the secrets my secrets haven't found

he pressed kisses to my wrists

darling, i love you so

my darling love is mine to hold

i will never let go