Holland

I didn’t go to Holland. 

I didn’t see the medley of pink and orange flowers. 

I didn’t get to see the man with the kind, murky eyes. I didn’t get to bask in the quiet of his smile. 

I didn’t feel the sweet breeze, and return its kisses. I wasn’t able to dance with the children in the flowers. 

I didn’t hear the small boy say hush. 

I didn’t get to smell the thick musk of the people, press my tongue into their indulgences, or run my small fingers through the full beard of the man with the murky eyes. 

I didn’t go to Holland. 

I didn’t get to choke. I didn’t get to cry. 

I didn’t get to drown in red lights, nor flourish with the flowers. 

I didn’t see the tourists, sparkling, crowding the street market in pursuit of something intangible amongst the colorful commodities decorating the stands. 

I didn’t hear the clattering of glasses, or the people’s nursery rhymes. 

I didn’t watch gray waters slap against stone, over and over and over again. I didn’t see the colors rub themselves in, attempting to merge, before releasing, relenting, and falling away. 

I didn’t get to see the small bird watch the transgression with hollow, vacant eyes. 

I didn’t go to Holland,

I didn’t get to ache with desire, didn’t get to feel the people and their culture twist, rage and lust beneath my reddening skin. 

I didn’t get to rip out the small, hard seeds from the pink and orange flowers beginning to germinate in my body, I didn’t get the chance to pull out something more, something still unstained. 

I didn’t get to pontificate on my tired, used flesh, a vessel broken open too soon. The fingerprints left behind belonging to a small child and a pair of much more seasoned hands. 

I smothered the moment. I didn’t let the flowers grow. 

I wanted to break. 

I didn’t see the trees, or the windmills peppering the verdant landscape, the time the ocean’s eyes vanished with a small push.