September

I will place sunflowers on your grave
When I feel that you are gone
They will come from
A condensation-laden bucket
At a florist’s stand in a grocery store

I wish I could say that I worked hard
Trying to pick the bouquet that best
Fit who you were, who you are and
Who you could’ve been but all is lost in time

I will sit with my back on the headstone
Wishing for any feeling besides cold granite
Hot anger and a lukewarm apathy that sticks
Like tapioca pudding to every movement of my frame

I think I lost you the first moment that I saw
Mist pass in front of your eyes
I said nothing as the blindness took you
Changing the magenta hues of a sunrise
Into the indigo wool of a sunset

These sunflowers are my last plea
To a god pulling reins in my chariot brain
I can’t place this burden down until my race ends
No victors, no losers, only foam-flecked steeds
Dying in agony on unforgiving sand