yellow roses and red knuckles

the air's sweet with death;

not the kind with

rotted flesh

but with a spring breeze

bringing in the scent of

scraped knees

and

decaying leaves

honeysuckles

bloom

and their aroma is

nostalgic,

a reminder of a simpler time

when romance was magic

and life wasn't a tragic

lie

it's ironic how

nature masks out

the smell of our agony

with flowers and lost

memories.

it almost takes the

pain away

it almost makes

all of this

okay