windowsill

It still hurts. Like it shouldn't.
At night/
and while driving/
when a red truck passes/whistle blows/face shows
or it flashes...

Sometimes I wonder if the restoration
was on too Old of Bones.

There are all these promises I know,
about You
and time and how things
leave

but these daffodils stand Deathless still
In an already broken windowsill
Please
won't You squeeze
it
out/shut?