I think of you from time to time and of how I'd ask you to pass the wine, before our lips joined together as one, your dark to my light, ying and yang, intertwined.

I think of you lesser now, of only how your fuzz had felt, upon my chin and against my cheek, our hearts never had a chance to fully meet.

I think of you, a vague memory of what it felt like to be in lust, not in love but so passion consumed it swelled and bust.

I don't want to admit that I think of you now, because of how our trist fell out.
It was dark and gruesome and nothing like the butterflies that used to carry me off the ground, but instead a sludge that sunk my feet and pulled me deeper in over my crown.

You're a memory of grief buried deep, but out from the mud I have bloomed again, a flower for the moths to pollinate and spread my love to those who hate.