cheating death

by Linda M. Crate

buried in the sunshine of your
hair are blackened candles
of webs that even
spiders would shy away from,
and i wonder
if you  sat upon the reeds
watching me kiss lilies
holding conference
with the lilac winged butterflies;
because the bees
you presented my flowers
first tasted sweet
an ambrosia even the gods
would envy,
but no one's jealous of
my poor little
broken heart
or the fact you played it
to the beat of a
lover's demise—
you never cared,
but you said that you did
your heart died in your
chest long before
you were born you became
a grave for a funeral
that isn't yours.