a reflection in st. patrick's garden

Once a year, I take a stroll to the graves
To reaffirm my place in humanity.
I always stop before the same plot,
My ambition's final resting place.

As I fall to my knees,
My face brushes a solitary daffodil;
Rejecting the stars,
And numbering the days until you return to me.

The feeling lingers;
The corolla is a pillow:
Always cool, and unwavering in its
Protective state.

As I fall into sleep,
I'm in your arms again:
An imperfect reflection in your eyes,
Destined to be a faulty anchor to your life.

And then the petals are
Razor blades,
Cutting, tearing, peeling
At the flesh, and what was once whole is
Nevermore.

But then I see it's
Just a flower;
The flora to my fauna,
Blowing along in the wind.