Mrs. Bumblebee

Over cinnamon apple tea,
and technicolor pictures galore,
she dreamed of her lover,
and so much more.

I was a starving artist,
oil streaked carnations covered my walls.
Pictures of the birds and the bees,
of emptiness and the trees,
and my lover’s cat calls.

I used to scrawl carelessly,
painted his portrait a thousand times
– or maybe just his smile.
I cry out in my light sleep,
I tell that girl everyday,
asking why God had to have His way.

One day the rain fell as thick as black oil,
as dark as my work-in-progress on the soil.
Begging all the while,
“please don’t take him from me!”
He faded away
like fog on sunny days.

I sketched his face,
I sculpted my pain,
I molded our love.
In this little old rocking chair,
I mumbled into the night,
I chose to take flight.
I stopped at this door,
craving to paint more,
of the lover I lost long ago.

Over oatmeal cookies,
and red acrylic paint galore,
I lecture on my lover,
and so much more.

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