oil and grease are

allover my fingers

though I wash them

the smell carries on

Like the books I carry

throughout the years

at night

alone

I smell the flowers

and each day I seek to have

a connection that was

not here the day before

I feel pain that hurts

I feel pain that heals

at night

alone

I smell the flowers

everything is a book

I have not written yet

I may speak a few words this day

or I may not speak again

the colors are all

less vibrant under the moon

at night

alone

I smell the flowers

the rain is made up

of deep sighs and

long goodbyes

and I get a scar

every so often

when the breeze kicks up

it is a relief

at night

alone

I smell the flowers

a locked up dream

and a cup of tea

about a foot of room on the couch

and sweet muscles stretch

far from an ocean of sweets

at night

alone

I smell the flowers