don't erase the memory of this
think, and consider
as you pick those roses
while i am here watching
your back
my perfume wafting in the air
tangle my hair
through your fingertips
and remember how the wind
blows it away
for when my time is done
your mind shall drift back – spinning
in remembrance
of sun-dappled garden
moistened with scent
brown hair soft
in your hands.