I live in a garden, among a thousand blooming things

a sickly sweet saturation of color

my conservatory, scented of blood and

buttercream frosting.




There are lilacs, dahlias, daisies

 rolling fields of white clover flowers, 

bushes of honeysuckle,

and fences of heavy wisteria.




The trembling of a lonesome violin

floats in the background

each crooning pitch melting away into

masterful vibrato.




Briefly I am reminded of you,

by the sound of the distant violin,

but the smell of the salty, sticky air

and the tragic lament of each gentle arpeggio

reminds me why I ran away 

in the first place.