Sunday, January 10, 2021


 [from the Vault] 

Yesterday I held your hand and whispered sweet nothings in the dark, uncertain of tomorrow. I smiled wide and spoke softly, like the air was a delicate flower and the pressure of my voice might cause a collapse. You laughed loudly, like it wouldn't matter because the flower could always be replanted. We could always water the seeds of our love and watch it grow again and again. Together. Hand in hand.

Then I forgot to water the garden. I pulled a flower from the bed to keep as a memory. And suddenly, that's all you were to me. The rest of the flowers wilted as you refused to water them any longer. The ground dried up as we walked into tomorrow. Apart and broken hearted.

Today, that garden is a barren land, like nothing could grow from the soil of our poisoned love. Of course, I've still got that first flower. Pressed and sealed. Though long dead, still beautiful in its memory. Like you. Long gone, but not forgotten. I've pressed a piece of you too. I've hung that piece up in the museum of my heart. Today, I am still holding on to these parts I've loved.

Tomorrow, well, I don't know. I might take down that frame and make room for something new. I might dig up the soil so something else might grow. I might move on. I might let you go. But maybe, I won't need to. Maybe, I don't want to ever put what we've become to rest.

Today, I'll plant that piece of you into the long deserted soil. Tomorrow, we'll see what grows from the memory.

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