The Soil

All of the envy I have belongs to my roses.
Hiding under the sanctuary of soil until winter has waned,
still so beautiful when spring becomes summer,
but I am running all year,
finding shelter in nothing,
reminders of you in all things,
that little threat of tears at the base of my throat when I remember that I never had the nerve to take the last exit presented to me.
I suppose I stayed around to see if you’d spring from the soil like the sweet roses I covet,
and it’s so easy to laugh at my lunatic coping mechanisms,
it takes something that neither of us have within us to be kind.