i can feel flowers growing in my lungs when he puts his head on my lap. they smell like his hair. they bloom every time he breathes and die at 4 in the morning when i leave.
i'd press them into the pages of old books if i knew i wouldn't get jealous of the text.
so instead i let their petals collect at the bottom of my stomach. and i get this rotting feeling for a week. until it's friday night and i'm back in his room again. watching movies and braiding his hair. growing gardens that'll make me sick for the next six days.
the little bukowski