What would they say...
these flowers on our graves?
About the people we were-
without knowing the waters we'd wade? 
Casting shadows over where we lay--
as they long to taste intentions, 
of the words we'll never say.
Nourished by the envy
seeping 6ft from where we fade.
Caged to feel them flourish 
above the bed we never made.
Oh darling, is it cold when you pray? 
Then why must we lay, 
where nothing warm can stay?