We sit at the table
and the white curtain
dances in the wind like a veil.
People talk
but I don't really listen.
I watch it flutter
and I see us
taking our vows.
It dances in the wind
like a veil.
Like you.

I've watered this garden for ages
Yet nothing ever grows
I've consulted botanical mages
They haven't the time for my trivial woes

I've pruned with bloodied fingertips-
Soil so stubborn, refusing to shift
I've given every pamphlet a flip
Still no signs of a horticultural gift

I'm a little tired.
I slept well,
and I don't think I'm sad.

It's just that...
being a responsible,
careful
adult
can get exhausting.

I thought it wouldn't be like that for me,
that I would always be
young and lucid.

But I guess,
no matter how different
we feel about ourselves,
we are all the same.

I thought we would be done by now.

But I keep finding more of you
between the lines
and more of me
between the letters.

Well…
this is not good.

I really, really hoped
you would look worse,
smell worse,
sound worse,
feel worse,
kiss worse…

But you are perfect.
Which means
I have a problem.

You're a gifted writer.
Every word you write
flirts with me.

And there's not much
you can do about it—
except stop writing.

But then,
it will be your silence
flirting with me.

I thought I was happy
until I felt
a tear
slip down my cheek.

I wasn’t sad—
or at least, I didn’t feel so.
It was just something inside me,
letting out one last cry.