We met in August, and became fast friends.
Eventually you grew a garden for me, filled with roses and daisies, any kind of flower you can imagine.
That garden grew. It was beautiful.
You occasionally hinted at the fact that you grew a garden for me, but you never told me directly.
I knew there was a garden there.
I grew one for you too. But it was too late.
I said your garden hints made me queasy. That was before my garden grew.
You decided to take out a flamethrower, and burn your garden to the ground, just as my roses started to bloom. It didn’t hurt you.

I told you about my garden. You didn’t like it.

You say you can’t grow things. You say you’ve done it too many times with it ending up wilting.
Yet now you’ve grown a garden for another person.

And mine is wilting. I need water.