i used to dream of
a life where
flowers would bloom from
my touch
and curiously wrap
themselves around my wrists
watching,
taking notes of my seasons.
because my March winds
could blow the instance
it became August if
i wanted. and sometimes
my tomorrows had no sunsets
and the grass would
cripple, crumble, and become crushed
under my constant stance
because i was there to
make a point right?
i could never seem
to reach though.
i could never make you
grow, or bloom, or change colors, or die.
no matter how many
suns i had or rainwater that
dripped from my eyes,
my season were never
able to support, sustain, and service your needs.