#sunflowerheart

Write poems for the women you can't have.

Buttercup skin. She has strength and rigor growing from her head.

She wears the beauty of a weeping willow in her locks.

And I bet that willow weeped.

I bet that willow bared the tug of playful and mischievous boys swinging and taking advantage of the durability of those hanging vines.

Pretending to be Tarzan, pretending to be king of her jungle. Boys.

Though I imagine not forever absent of thorn, her words flow over petals of rose.

And though the notes have never met my ear, it would fly in the face of nature if they were to resemble anything other than the summers hum after a warm honey laced sip.

In my mind she never leaves the bayou.

I can always find her there with her rose petal lips, willow tree hair, and sunflower heart.