forgotten garden

there are only two paths at the end of the garden. you know this, you’ve lived it these past eight years. and no matter how frozen the moss gets when you stop turning the sun on, there are still only two ways to leave this place. with your palms open in defeat or with your eyes shut.

is it over?

i’ve seen you wish for forest fires. you can rip out your lungs if it stops the blood pumping but you can still see it all behind the oak trees; the last of the rebirth fading into the ashes. the way it all ended on an autumn afternoon, bloodless and dull like the start of the last one standing.

but no matter what you dream about, there is nothing left in the garden. and you will not face the ending.

(in the night i see them, soft like angels, the very leaves under their feet turning to silk in the starlight. they are full of love still, and their hearts remain with yours on the side of the fence.)

there are only two paths. but the well is still left standing, cold stone in your eyes and on your fingertips. and if the grey light of dawn does not push you away then know that i never will, and you will always be home with me.

(walk out the front door. slide out the back. either way, it’s still gonna be morning.)

[Image: a road in Sri Lanka. Source: Dani Relbyn. Used with permission]