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The scent of flowers🥀


She comes to me sometimes,
mostly on the nights I throw my little fit and sleep outside on the grass in my sleeping bag.
I close my eyes and take deep breaths and remember the scent,
deep breath and then that scent; like some sort of flower with vanilla extract.

I hear her feet in the tall grass, her footsteps both gentle and fast.
She climbs in next to me in my zipped-up sleeping bag.
I am huddled in the corner, so that she has plenty of room.

" How are you, John?"
She leans in and whispers in my ear.
With the scent of flowers.
Flowers, like the ones I used to steal from my mother's flower bed.

I would run outside and eat the petals off of them as fast as I could, so that I wouldn't stop myself.
because I knew how much it upsets her,
but the taste and silky feel it left on my tongue made it too tempting.

"John... john? well, aren't you going to kiss me John?"
She asks in her childish pout.

' No, Mary, just leave me. Please.'

She lays her head on my chest, but I can't feel anything.
I focus on the smell of flowers.

'Mary, do you remember those nights in my room, how you let me in, how you told me,
can we go back to then?'

I fell in love with your words before my fingers ever traced an inch of you.


" Touch me John, please?"

' I can't, Mary, you won't be there.'

I close my eyes and focuse on the smell of flowers
and imagine myself sinking in the ground, sinking six feet down.
And I wonder what it would be like to be there for eternity, eternity, just you and me.



" Do you still love me, John?"

'Go away, please Mary!'

" Touch me John, and let me go."

' No, I don't want to let you go. I just want you to leave. I want to be alone. You know that when I reach for you, and you're not there, you'll disappear.

" We all disappear John.
We are born and then we are gone.
Just like the night light that flickers off and then on."


' But I need you Mary, you know this, you know that I can't stand to be here alone.
I won't let you go and be on my own again. You were the voice that I spent my days listening to even when everybody was laughing at me. It was you who I couldn't stand to leave me. But you did leave me, Mary!'


" Oh, you are such a little boy John. Touch me?"

I am a boy, I am a boy, I am a...

My fingers twitch at my side and she is gone.
Sweetpoison · 41-45, F Best Comment
Scent of dried flowers
Sweetpoison · 41-45, F
@Sweetpoison thank you for BC
Lostpoet · M
@Sweetpoison thanks for the title
Sweetpoison · 41-45, F
@Lostpoet you are welcome, it is a sentence of a song that i love

SW-User
I like the dialogue and imagery here. Parables exist in thy mind's eye in this one. Good work.
SnailTeeth · 36-40
I love how there was meter within the dialogue, without it being obviously structured; it flowed quite smoothly.

Besides all the obviously beautiful imagery and emotional content.
Lostpoet · M
@SnailTeeth Almost all of my writing has links to what I've read.


You get three chances to come up and then you drown - three more days and maybe I won't be around

Is from a scene in Johnny Got His Gun
SnailTeeth · 36-40
@Lostpoet I think that helps commit things to memory. I think poetry is often a commemoration of our experience. It's a brief funeral for the passing of our current selves, and sometimes those parts live with us our entire lives.
Lostpoet · M
@SnailTeeth Truth
bookerdana · M
I'd call it nymph..BUT I'm horrible at titling things..I once called a short story,The Old Man and the She...
Lostpoet · M
@bookerdana I like that title it reminds me of the waste land. But nymphs have a bad modern representation of being nymphomaniacs.

T.S. Eliot the wasteland
The nymphs are departed.
Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song.
The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers,
Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends
Or other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed.
And their friends, the loitering heirs of City directors;
Departed, have left no addresses.
By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept . . .
Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song,
Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long.
But at my back in a cold blast I hear
The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear.
bookerdana · M
@Lostpoet even today there is something mythical and ethereal implicit in the word
calicuz · 56-60, M
I can't think of a better title, but the story is good
Maybe it's just me but it sounds like cradle robbing on her part???
No i didn't mean she sounded like a kid.. i mean it sounded like she had been with him when he was a kid.. 😬 anyway.. im just overly leery of stuff.. sorry if i misunderstood the post 😒 @Lostpoet
Lostpoet · M
@SStarfish the i am a boy.. I am a boy.. 🤷‍♂️Some men are manchild's still afraid to touch women.
Oh.. well not all @Lostpoet
matureaura · 41-45, F
SW stores incoming messages from other users that aren't your friend in the ''Requests'' folder under messaging. Try to give it a whizz once in a while. ✌🏻
ninalanyon · 61-69, T
That was good. But so sad.
Lostpoet · M
@ninalanyon Thank you for saying that, but it does look better on here than it does printed out on paper. It was one of the poems I was trying to fix.
This is beautiful.🌷
Beautiful 🌺🌺
Lostpoet · M
@metaldog Thank you

 
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