I never did quite thank her

For the things she did.

Opening my eyes

To profound pain and pleasure.

The depths of which

Cannot be measured.

And I am sick now...

But at least

The fever comes

From thoughts

Lodged beneath

A near perfect ground.

The garden of our passion -

Dressed with roses,

Blooming fruits,

Windswept bushes,

And a solemn thorn.

That unavoidable sting...

She grabbed her things,

Walked out the gate

And left the tiny garden space.

As I fell to my hands and knees

And with soiled palms

Began to water

The trees she left behind...

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