Notion

It's small,
smaller
than it was last Spring,
or the Spring before
when blush cherry
spattered the floor.
Perhaps a dead bee is an omen,
perhaps a fallen tree
reincarnated as a throne
is a warning,
perhaps a cigarette
is the sedative,
the heart emptied out.
And it doesnt beat,
or hum passionate anymore.
It's void,
it's the void I'd always heard about
I know it now
by name.