December Garden

I still remember the grooves in your lips on those December nights.

I remember you planting seeds in my lungs and promising me that a garden would grow there one day.

These seeds you planted grew so quickly because you would water them everyday and I began wondering what exactly you had planted. My parents always made sure to warn me of drugs in the streets, but they never told me of the ones with dimples and dark brown eyes.

Although I had never touched anything stronger then penicillin, I felt as if I could touch Mars. The taste of lies and whisky on your tongue was the only thing keeping me close to the ground.

Now this Garden in my lungs is overgrown, and although the flowers are beautiful, I can't breathe. roots intertwine with my ribcage and I feel trapped.

I ask myself, how the hell can a garden grow so quickly in the middle of winter. You defied nature, but you couldn't see the beauty in that.

I weave my way through the tall sunflowers and the wisteria vines. I carefully step over the buttercups and the pansies, and as I come across the forget-me-nots and the irises, I can't help but laugh at the irony.

But I never got to tell you that daisies are my favorite.

I lay down with the lillies and look up at the night sky...

I never got to share with you the way the moon relaxes my soul.

there were a lot of thing I didn't get to tell you...

I guess December just wasn't long enough.