The Garden

I couldn’t feel you breathing when I woke up this morning.
I found myself cold and desolate in any house, except your home.
You said yesterday night was the last time you’d feel your chest rise.
I shut my eyelids; water dripping off my lashes.
Pouring on goose bumps; burns like acid.
I can’t imagine all you’ve seen; dandelions in the spring.
Pollen, flowing with the breeze; animate energy rising from your body; going through swirls inside of me.
I feel the end of our coexistence near.
I scream into alfresco; let me hear.
My almanac promised me flowers grow; picking pedals up off the corridor floor.
Separating the garden where I first saw your structure lingering in blue; from the attic where I produce the lovely things I was planning on writing for you.
Skeletons disintegrate becoming dust; form particles that afloat above.
Slowly the world’s atmosphere I breathe in is taking away my utter love
The rain, it floods; the ground begins to turn into mud.
They say dirt is where the deceased lay in their beds.
I prefer the term lying in their coffins.
Bringing them to the crossover of Summerland
I call it facing the end.
Some describe it as a state of euphoria showing your celestial entity.
All I can see is your lifeless body.
In my head I am aware you were one of the suffering.
I’m dichotomy you’re soul found the spark to free your inhibitions finally.
Apparently there are fields full of green.
I can’t stand, now fence sitting.
The sound of rivers rushing down the streams;
I hear there; human kind cannot impair.
What they proclaim reincarnation, takes you away.
I’m just hoping to hear your voice again one day.
Like the flower you are to me, the wind has swept your seeds away; implanting them in the soil of the garden to rise again one day.