every night, we
drew blood from the moon, and
allowed it's silver pools, to
fill the cups in which we drank from in order to immerse ourselves in our own delusions, we

hid underneath a blanket of stars, tending
to the loneliest parts of ourselves, I
would pick the flowers from my garden, and
I would plant them in yours, I

would knock upon doors in your mind, hoping
something inside you would find the strength to open up, but
most of the time they remained shut, and

I have always wandered through forests and oceans, searching
for pieces of myself, yet
within you I found a few, and
I also found something else, within

you I found both heaven and hell, I
found both graveyards and gardens, I
discovered the sun and the moon, and
I discovered it within me too, yet

it seems that often times I misconstrued what you said you saw in me, I
knew that I have always been a tragedy, an
abandoned garden, decaying
and destined to never flourish again, yet

I thought you had found a spot in my ground in which you could plant yourself, in
which you could grow and despite the parts of my garden that are withering away, you
had found a reason to stay, but

I was wrong because the only door you ever opened was one that did not reside in either of our minds, but
a door that was in my life, and
you walked out.