Oh,

I think I’ve gotten her out of my teeth now.

Grazed my ivories with my tongue to find her.

In search for her precise location.

She was somewhere stuck between my gums.

I took a toothpick

Then,

took a second

With my index finger in assistance

I harvested her

And comforted her upon my nail.

Ah, there she is.

Restin’ on my finger until I fling her off.

Thank god,

She could’ve caused a cavity.

A cliché that shall be presented before you, yes. Yet, still a truth nonetheless.

Though the loveliness of what blossoms through spring’s showers has since been discovered and dubbed,

Not by I.

And though tales of what crawls from underneath the dirt in gardens have been narrated for centuries,

Not by I.

So, one can suppose, that now is the hour to unfold what triumphs a meadow poses.

My initial interest was born out of curiosity for what sprouts underneath me, yet,

I only remember the bee.

From what the hippocampus is reluctant to recall,

She was perched upon a single flower in the meadow.

As the occultness of flowers had only just been birthed to me, The Bee’s survival was practically dependent upon it.

The ownership of my gaze was briefly gifted onto her as she clutched onto a chrysanthemum.

Our presences were enclosed by gazanias, cleome gynandras, and Easter lilies.

Enthralled by the song of the buzz and the wondrous wings, my feet crept closer without instruction.

The Bee acknowledged my impulse to be adjacent to her and briefly took flight to loosen herself from my gaze.

Dispirited by The Bee’s decision to bequeath both the flower and my being,

My feet operated as a compass to guide the rest of the body home.

Unexpectedly, the sound of her song amplified near me once more.

Was it my sigh that prompted her re-arrival?

Or perhaps she possessed wonders of me?

Though humans and bees are so common,

She seemed to carry the same curiosity of me, that I’ve obtained for her.

I could crush her.

She could sting me.

With her return, time transformed from a construct to a precious object I intended to protect.

As we wandered, I told The Bee of my dreams while she flew around me.

As we both left the chrysanthemum lonely,

My legs grew weary of walking through the meadow, but her song rewarded me.

When others crossed our paths along our travels, I foolishly showcased The Bee.

Expecting them to be in full amazement and awe.

Their understanding of The Bee reflected a version I was yet to be enlightened with.

Without hesitation, they instantly began flailing their arms in the air.

Their bodies crafted a ring around her.

Encaging her as they attempted to swipe their hands towards her.

With neglected wailing for the safety of The Bee,

my hands mimicked the mouth of a venus flytrap, and cuffed her within my palms.

Felicity stumbled across me.

I could crush her

But she stung me.

In shock, I uncovered my hands.

Horrified at what The Bee had done.

Before the others could once again rage their war against The Bee,

Her wondrous wings steered her in the direction of the clouds.

Aiming for the blue that rested over us.

I attempted to call for The Bee,

Yet she traveled faster than words could escape my mouth.

It seemed that she and the sun were soon to be acquainted in ways that they should never.

But alas, she wouldn’t return.

She kept flying,

Inching closer,

Could the sensation of the increasing heat not be felt?

Maybe the scorching sun had disguised itself as a comforting warmth.

Maybe The Bee always dreamed of flying that high.

Perhaps the spirit of Icarus resembled hers, and it was simply her fate.

In a disgusted awe, I observed as The Bee kissed the sun.

Evolving to ashes.

Decaying as if she never was.

As specs of her drifted back to earth and laid in front of me, I wept.

Devastated by the sight.

The love that I dared to conjure for the bee,

Had to be swallowed with a thrush throat.

It was as if the ashes were tainted memories of the bee.

Though the skin of my inner hand was still irritated from where the bee had stung me,

I gathered and cuffed her ashes.

Holding them in my palms as she was once held.

While we were so near to exiting the meadow,

I dragged myself back to the exact locus where we first encountered one another.

Only to spread the ashes of the bee over the flower.

This otherworldly setting that gathered my amusement,

Is now a gravesite in her honor.

The voyage back to the flower had been accomplished,

Though at the post where it once was first confronted, laid ashes as well.

Ah.

The bee was the flower.

Intertwined as one, the death of the bee was the death of the flower.

When Sorrow comes to visit, he doesn’t take off his shoes. Dragging and tracking mud from outside to every room in the house. He doesn't even pretend to wipe his feet at the welcome mat before entering. With each visit, his clothes become shabbier and his hands filthier. He always announces and apologizes that he can’t stay for long, he has others to visit. I always suggest water, but he prefers tea. Taking longer to prepare and prolonging his stay. We always listen to Etta while the tea is being made. I’m not ever sure when he’ll leave, some visits are more extended than others. No matter how long the stay, you can always tell he was here. The longer he stays, the more dirt and mud build up on the floor. The more smudges and streaks upon the wall. Even long after he’s gone and I’ve polished the floorboards and purified the walls, there’s still stains that he left behind. Forget-me-nots proving he was once here. Before he goes, he'll turn to me and say I should be grateful I’ve only got to scrub mud from the floors and trail a rag against the walls. If he were to take off his shoes, it would be far more mess to clean.

I'm not from a small town where everyone knows everyone. Where we stop to smile, greet, and wave. I'm from the capital, where the roads are scarred and the pollution in the gray sky is terrorizing school children with asthma before they even learn their ABCs. I'm from the city with the most violence. Car break-ins, assaults, and murders. Where people spit on the sidewalk, where the homeless man sleeps at the bus stop. Where every year, the same politicians promise if we vote for them, they'll be the ones to change this hopeless city. Then they turn around and use our tax dollars to vacation in places I can't even pronounce. But, I learned to drive on those scarred roads. I paused and waited on the playground as my weezy friends got out their inhalers. And I cried as many of them inevitably moved away. I gathered with hundreds of others on my city streets to protest those same politicians and seen the homeless man from the bus stop awake from his slumber to cheer us on.

She shrieks and cries out

Loud weeps from both her and child

She looks down to smile

The years seem to fly

Soon the crawls turn into walks

Babble turns to talk

Getting dressed for school

All grown up, tie my own shoe

Look, I’m driving too!

Got my bachelor’s,

But I am no longer one

Found my honey bun

She shrieks and cries out

The years have come to an end

Same way they begin