She plucks petunias from her pupils,
watches as they graze the hardwood floor.
Dandelion dust clings to her lips
from the last time she made a wish
for rose bud love
to bloom inside the hollow of her cheek,
so I could come to pick them.
Orchids grow in her eyes
as vines hang from my brick wall smile.
Her heart is made of tulip bulbs,
and I can feel them opening
between a rib cage greenhouse.
I walk through her garden,
floral fragrances fondle my nose,
tracing fingertips down my spine;
I see her, sitting in a field of daisies,
singing melodies of heartbreak,
dark geraniums fall from her lips.
I wander to the pond in the corner
of the meadow,
and snatch a Tiger Lily
In red ink,
I write you've got the wrong lyrics
across the petals,
and let it drift on the breeze
into her lap.
