milkwort.

it hasn’t been long since you left

but it doesn’t suck.

wild grass and weeds have grown over the old house

and my childhood has been buried. 

i look to the mountains

and think of you

the sleeping giant.

i look through the pines in the barrens

and in the dirt, orange milkwort grows.

it reminds me of the pills on your desk.

and sometimes,

my cigarette smells like your room,

like old smoky sweaters,

and i wonder

if death's bed is good for your back.