Transparent flowers for an invisible grave,
Stem sap sticky on your fingertips,
The sunlight kisses your freckled skin,
Comforting you more than any person ever could,
And the world was almost perfect,
Until it wasn't.
Your legs buckle,
Your kneecaps scraping the weightless stone,
And you ponder
Wonder what you're grieving for...
Did it Matter?
You ask yourself
But it did.
Honey it did.
Perhaps the people blind to your tombstone and tears
Will scoff
But Honey it matters more than you think.
Grief was like fashion;
Too personal for others to comments,
Yet others still had an opinion on it.
But Honey,
Don't listen them,
Whatever's inside is yours
It may sink in the Earth and rot in the past,
But it'll forever be yours
So grieve,
Grieve until you're satisfied,
A human action so many perceive as the luxury
for the idle, for the demented, for the lazy, for the overly-sensitive,
But it isn't,
Honey
It isn't.
