Where nostalgia goes to die because,
while I may be good with words and prose and my mouth,
I was never good with my hands
Half the time they’re on the attack and
if they’re not fighting back
they’re
turning what once was gold to rust, hell, if not black
I’ve got no green thumb, our so-called memory garden would ultimately be
a cemetery of dreams that died from lack of sunlight.
I overwatered our poor garden thinking I was doing my memories a favor but I must not forget:
pain doesn’t like to swim—it stays afloat that way—if given the choice it’d rather drown than accept it’s fate of always haunting the mind, taunting the heart.
Alas
let’s raise a glass
to our beautiful memory garden that I couldn’t keep alive
but then again are we surprised
your favorite past-time
wanted to be nourished by me but I let it die
its legacy cut short all because its thorns
were a little too intimidating.