i take a photo of the food i made myself for dinner with quiet pride.

only this time, i don't send it to you.

i have to write this.
this is torturous.
[insert word i am not allowed to say here]
this is all your fault.
joy...happiness...
something i do not feel now,
something i haven't felt in
twelve days since we let go.
takes a lot to get there,
joy...happiness...
takes leaving what once made me
joyous...
takes leaving what i once made
happy...
to get somewhere i can maybe,
just maybe be joyous and happy
then, now, and always.

it gave me something to write about,
not the first thing i would have chosen...

i fear we made a mistake,
but even moreso that we didn't...

i showed you the garden,
it had been too long.

i see you in everything,
fires, scars, stars, flowers.

you loved the morning glory,
you'd never seen anything like it before.