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.