How often does a memory last, wrapped in the thorny shrub of one’s heart? I’ve often twisted myself on the realization that love is something that can be forgotten. Though, for how was my youth, it was only naivety that swung me in that direction. Love is never a rope traded, for a heart on its end, like some bucket full of tears. It’s never a thing I can hold, with ease. Just endless skies of somewhere I can drop diamonds, drop my tears, so that the earth can be watered for some new forest.

Blood is so endless, in waves from a heart, to the growth of crops to prevent starvation. I can have shores without the salt to rise up, without the toil, and then, only the rest. Only the sleep of years, where my eyes can see graves opened wide, like mouths that could never close. Like flies could enter, to never exit, as the tomb that absorbs wails of grief.

Here, I disguise myself in my own recollections. For I believed I could swim, without drowning. I believed I would stay afloat, bleeding without losing. Drops that left, though never truly departed to the silver moon, where I know they originated. I hold a crown that is naked with the thorns, to my pain, to every stain that never dries on my lips.

I could kiss her, in her dead nakedness. I could hold her, for a final time, weeping my goodbyes into her flesh. I could grow myself in her debris, sweeping her worn face into smoothness with my hand. I wish to hold, though I can never release.

Something holds me. Someone scolds me. Was it for her where I placed this rose? Can it be, for her, as I kneel in the earth where bones are the garden for my plucking?

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