The Trouble With Hearts

This evening I woke
to the sound of Spring
banging her fists,
full of blossoms,
against my front door,
and I wondered how
long it has been
since you smelled
anything other than deep
earth and the absence
of rotting love.
I still wake up,
strung out and smelling
you on my skin,
thinking the dead
should always be left
with their hearts.
Pin mine to my
dress and leave me
to rot, it has loved too
hard to burn.

© Nicole Lyons 2018

4 thoughts on “The Trouble With Hearts

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