The Garden

Tomorrow I shall not flourish,

I shall tremble against the wind,

Rising from my patch of cotton to greet the bold sunlight.

It is then I shall think of you,

The long nights and the even longer days,

Sweat slick palms and the acrid smell of smoke,

As we both stumbled towards a phantasmal plane,

Carried by the joy of isolation and the smell of each other's flesh. 

The hunger in our hearts was honest, perhaps yours more than mine,

yet we lusted after different fruits. 

Yours was made of fire, which seared you from the inside, 

Mine was made of timid seed, cowering beneath the hoarfrost.

Each was our own, and of our own making, 

I brought you to embers as you thrust me towards the sky.

We reached for each other, but pricked ourselves upon the thorny roses,

Grown in a garden we'd known since birth. 

It was then that my branches withered and your fire raged,

And I turned away, so that you might burn bright,

And I might live to grow another day.