I’ve never loved the way I did with you,
and now I’m looking at the ceiling
creating a future where the flowers
that you filled my garden with perish
into cracked and bruised petals that I’ll smash into a notebook as a reminder that
even when the emptiness is heaviest
there is color and beauty like nothing else.
Maybe it’ll keep me going, and next time my garden will be cared for by more than half of a heart, more than a part-time lover, more than anything you could offer
with week long absences where you catered to other gardens because my soil
wasn’t as far along or rich as theirs.
Our garden was either dying of thirst or flooding the earth around it. You could only love me or ignore me and I could only do one of those things, until now.
It won’t be long before our garden is dead
and you fill someone else with your life. I’m happy for you and I’m happy for them but our garden turns into my desert.
I’m alone,
and I’m afriad
that will
never
end