I wrote an elegy and it won because they mistook it for a love poem-
The flowers in my kitchen were never surface level of what everyone thought they were.
I didn’t have the emotional capacity to correct them.
And the grass in the cemetery demanded a botanical autopsy-
Ivy grew over stone and I couldn’t see them anymore,
I’d sent you pictures of the lithograph and later kissed you under it.
I can still taste my own lip gloss even now.
Somehow you still follow me-
You’re under the porch light with brown curls and blue eyes,
The same gentle smile that never left your face once.
The only time I saw you without it was on the pavement.
And it took a long time before I could comprehend dates again-
Sometimes days still blur while I try to fix my heart,
I started avoiding the calendar on the first day of the year.
Now everything relies on retrospective narrative.
I wrote an elegy and it won because they mistook it for a love poem-
I didn’t have the emotional capacity to correct anyone.
I was too busy putting flowers on the counter you should’ve been at.
