His side of the bed still felt warm,
His books still doggy-eared and frayed.
His clothes still smelled of cigarettes,
His voice still rang through the halls.
Her hands held locks of hair, torn
From dead roots long ago grayed.
Her finger danced 'round them in minuets,
Her feelings she only recalls.

Countenance falls with each ripped petal,
Eyelids are stitched to the face they belong to.
Voice spoke in repetition, pleading, yet useless:
"Don't do it, they love you. Remember they love you."

This flower has roots who's bloom never settles,
Yet bugs for afar still pollinate through.
This blossoms not life, but something more ruthless,
The roses of cheeks turn forever to blue.

They found her swinging, her neck nearly broke,
Body draped in the gown from the day she was wed.
Her stem held the paper, her thorn carved the note,
"Don't replant this flower, long ago I was dead."