Your lips would’ve been pink.
The same color as the roses in your grandmother’s garden.
You wouldn’t have thorns, no.
You’d only be as soft and as delicate as the petals.
When you opened your lips the sounds of birds singing would release.
Your movements would be delicate, as your white flowy dress moved with the warm wind.
But today, it is winter.
Birds stay in their nests and the sun hides behind clouds.
The bees have yet to come out and bring the roses to life, just as you.
There is little happiness, exuberance, or joy.
I sit heavy as the drenched wilted flowers,
Clothed in a white hospital gown rather than a dress.
As I swallow the pill and destroy what would’ve been you, the sunsets.
I don’t know when it’ll come up again.