archaeologists excavate botany

you buried my marrow seeds in skeletal gardens, hoping they would grow into a heart to replace your brittlesweet timebomb.  how many half-full, half-empty teardrops does it take to hydrate your frail, fractured fragments ? my watering can has a limit, you know, but i don’t want your fragile leaves to suffer osteoporosis. you planted my framework beneath dirt and gravel, but cartilage vines tangled petals with vitamins and the sun bruised my corollas and calyces.

nine months later, i sprouted from the ground, spreading sepal wings, ascending until my height surpassed the sky.  you climbed my beanstalk body, counting each thorn as it tattooed your branch arms; with each prick you bled pastel rosebuds – a bouquet that shined like aesthetic salesflowers, auctioning beauty, and the appeal of it left you stricken.  you were the highest bidder, you were, but even Love comes with a pricetag.

when you become extinct, we’ll exploit your exhibit for the natural history museum.
there’s nothing natural about our history.
yeah, well, trust me; your amaranthine fossils will make dinosaurs look like cavemen and evolve darwinism into taxidermists.  we’ll redecorate floral textbooks with our own ligaments leaves and punctured lungs.
who’s this ‘we’ you speak of anyway ? as far as science goes, you’re only one person.  if you were any more, i don’t think i’d study you as much.

you plucked the roulette wishbones from my hollow ribcage – one by one, two-hundred and six times – until nothing remained but my hips.  you sighed i love you as you pulled out my left hipbone; but alas, two-oh-six is an even number, so when you pulled the eastern hemisphere from my jenga-block pelvis your eyes trickled a heavy not.

you cried through my staunch-stem-eyelashes,
showering me with affectionate attention.
i guess you overwatered me with compassion.
i guess i drowned in my dreams