Blooming.

My cactus is blooming.
I am writing about the sun again
The baby breath is dry and ready to leave
Yet, everything feels just the same.

Because Spring is here
But you are not.
Because when things start falling in place, you start falling apart.
Because you like white pansies and blades more than you like thorns.
So,
I’ll wait for winters
And for everything to change.
And I’ll resist my desire
To write about the sun again.

Because, you see,

In this poem,
“You” is “me”
And I miss myself.
I miss myself.