Can the son not just melt your leaves into
potpourri? Make the scent of your love last two
steps closer to forever.

Flowers are nice. But the 500 alarm
and 1800 hours return home
don’t afford me the 62 drips it takes to feed you,
and keep your petals erect.
Your needs and my time speak with different dialects.
They’d frame it lack of trying that in just days you’re dying
but I swear it ain’t neglect, so I’m asking.
Please.

Transform. ‘For a rose
by any other name still smells as sweet.’

I beg the scent of your love to last closer to
forever. Don’t deny the son’s rise.
May He melt your leaves into potpourri.