the graveyard in my heart

Clean laundry and fresh cut grass
Poetry in my notes app
God, memories of you make me so sick
Butterflies all over again like a teenager

But as they pop pop pop out of my
nauseatingly nostalgic fantasy,
the wings each slice apart my insides
one by one, until all I can feel is hollow pain

Maybe a faint memory of something
once a harbinger of love
a palpable hole in an otherwise overgrown
garden of seasonal purples, vines, and filigree;
You name it.

It doesn’t have your name on it, you know.
Nothingness is nothingness. It’s a black hole.
Quite a few dug the grave. Takes a village.
Just so happens the coffin is in your size,
Doesn’t mean I filled it up with your remains.

In fact, it’s empty inside. I’ve taken back
all the flowers and bears and love and thought
and hope and wishes and kisses once filled to the brim
in your honor. They’re mine now to give
to those who love me bigger than you could.