There are no warm shoulders on strangers
There are no eagles on the tip of flowers.
Somethings are not meant to be.

We are just as religious as a petal
Synthesizing anthocyanins to make the flower seem brighter,
To attract insect pollinators.

We too comb our hair, wear an ironed shirt,
And walk tall, to press our confidence
Against those glancing at our direction.

And when I die, I will be a delicacy for microorganisms.
Some bacteria will decay my flesh, while
Someone who I never knew,

Who had a secret crush on me, will resurrect
Me back to the living. Like raindrops blowing
Through your window, wetting something interior.

The heart, is a damp sponge, with little pores,
That fill and empty at the same time. Absorbing through inlets
And letting go through outlets.

There is no life after the estuary,
And yet the ocean winds blow through a pining heart,
Depositing trails of halite, on an invisible screen.

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