and the sun rose in the west today because it thought the world was dead.
but it is alive because I woke up this morning and breathed.
and you know, I have always wondered
what is death to the mortician?
a wilted rose he bought yesterday for his lover
but the lover never saw the rose because she was too busy thinking about death.
he paints all day,
red the blue lips
and when i asked him why he paints them red
he laughed and the rose dropped a petal.
if I could go back in time
i would give my lover a pencil instead of a pen
so i could erase his mother’s name from her death certificate
but what is a death certificate to me
when my lover bought my roses at 3:00?
and when the certificate that defines me has DIVORCE printed at the top
like the name of a city
but i cannot leave the city
because my feet are planted in the ground
so I can never visit DEATH.
but that’s where my lover is
and he has my roses
so they’ll wilt before I see them
because he bought them after noon.
and they say that love is like a ferris wheel because
it seems like you’re only ever at the top once
even if you’re at the top seven times
because the view never changes.
only maybe the people at the bottom change
so being at the top doesn’t really make a difference.
does that make death the same way too?
no, of course it doesn’t.
the mortician has the answer but he can’t say because
he just painted his lips red and if he speaks
now his lover sees the roses
but she’ll never see roses the same again
because they’re dead too
but the difference is that she can buy new roses.
or someone else can buy them maybe
but the ferris wheel surely won’t ever be the same.
and now that love is dead who will paint her lips?
they will have to be blue and people will think she’s ugly
but they won’t admit that they thought she was ugly when she was alive.
she’s only pretty to the people
that share her beauty
and her roses never died
but the mortician still did.
and I can stare at my roses —
they’re alive, because I bought them —
and call them daisies
but that doesn’t make them daisies
and no matter how many times i tell my lover
that i am in love
that doesn’t make them daisies either.
so when i closed the casket on her —
i could have sworn she smiled at me
could have sworn she was holding daisies
but maybe i just felt like swearing.
and into the ground she went
with her blue lips and
everybody moved on.
i put roses on her grave every day because
they always died before noon
but the ones on the mortician’s grave didn’t.
and as she decayed she
carried the sun down in the east on millions of feathers and
it set and i climbed into bed
frowning at my roses because
they lost all their petals and
i think i forgot to breathe.