pink petals so fragile
they break at the touch of my fingertips
melt into the palm of my hands.
my grandmother use to cut open the bulbs slit by slit
and my eyes would grow big watching them
bleed a lustrous milky substance day by day
drying brown as they aged in the sun.
i watched my grandfather clean his pipe neatly.
disassemble the pieces. wrap them in leaflets.
burying it in a box underneath his bed
as the smoke lay thick in the air.
it billows to this day...
the memories of my fading youth.
the memories of our fading youth.