I poured champagne on the garden,
just to see what wouldn’t grow.
A rebellion disguised as art,
too small to leave a bruise.
The idea felt poetic—
a confession spilled like incense,
settling heavy in the soil,
thicker than regret.
By dusk, the dirt turned sticky,
a graveyard for good intentions,
gold on a barren altar,
pearls drowning in sweetness turned sour.
A bee circled the spill,
its wings trembling,
caught between greed and retreat.
I wanted to tell it, Save yourself.
But even the flowers had given up,
their petals folded like apologies
too late to matter.
I stood barefoot in the dirt,
watching bubbles rise slick
against the roots of something already dying.
At least the garden refused me honestly—
its silence more forgiving
than any answer you gave me.
I laughed at how pathetic it felt—
a toast to nothing,
a promise unraveling,
luxury offered to the lifeless.
I’ll wake up tomorrow
and call it nothing,
but the smell of champagne
will linger on my palms.
And you’ll linger, too,
where regret always does—
settled deep in the soil,
refusing to grow.
