It has been
seven months, and i
still don't like nature anymore
because it isn't filled with
the branches from your ribs and
the fallen leaves from
your head. I can't
look outside without
craving every part of
your forest in ways i can't seem to
quantify in tear ridden pieces of
paper i always threw away.
Every inch of your bones is
made from the richest soil that i
yearn to plant my dying flowers in, but they just
never seem to
grow as much as you wanted, and i
am sorry. I can never apologize enough for
the countless hours i
wasted trying to find patterns in
your twigs that were always going to
be random. I have always found
hope in the littlest things,
especially the way you said my name
in a tone only Shakespeare
could have described.
It has been a while since
you visited my garden. My meadows
are now filled with
the weeds stemming from the stained
words you said to me that
last night. I always thought
you'd be the one to provide
sunshine to my plants,
but i always mistook your burning
hands for the Sun i suppose.
Now your memory is like a
fog that i can't run away from,
and no matter how many times i
pound at my dirt and
fertilize my trees with other sources,
I seem to only grow from
you.
-MB