It’s been three weeks to the day
Since last your lips lay upon my heart
Since those thumbs pressed against my bones
And my ribcage aches with the knowledge
That all that should grow in your wake
Shall be fed with the loss of our love.
So while the tendrils tread forth
To permeate gossamer skin,
Their roots will find they cannot breach
The man-made garden of buried bones.
© 2018 Anna Rabinov