Rise from your grave inside of my brain. Some unmarked real estate of gray matter, differentiated from its surroundings only by a half dozen angry flowers. They grow on the nutrients released by the decayed hatred I coupled with your corpse.
I want to watch you lurch out of that hole and fall down on rotten knees and howl and wail and feel the full force of the pain that I bred and drowned in you. But that plot preserved you, and you floated out of your perfect packaging in much the same way that a red balloon seems to leave the troposphere with a silent grace only imagined from ground-level observation.
I want you to shamble into me and glance your open sores on my sandpaper skin, I owe you that much at least. But your skin is whole, there is no wound to prod and I can’t touch you. It takes you hours to make a deeper print in me than others leave in months.
The Earth has stopped spinning and the wind is holding its breath.
I’m sitting on a branch and hoping you’ll walk underneath