prologue
three years is "not" a long time.
I spent them all, waiting to be plucked,
whenever he thought
my time's up.
the pit felt like a coffin: a dark, handsome home.
home it was,
so when I woke up, my breaths were still alive.
* * *
last night,
his letter:
thought I am still 18,
read barren and desolate
had a room for me "now" to sleep in
it's chilly there—eight crops have died in the last row
their thorn pierced my finger when I tried closing the gate
no sound of my heart, only my agony shrieked
for my cheeks have stopped kindling
at
the
thought
of
him.
I sprint,
I'm no trespasser and I'm no friend,
so I shall not visit his garden again.
today,
morning rain showered my body,
the mud's retreated back to the pit.
a bud is sprouting on my left,
my two leaves come together to thank the sun.
I face the east,
my eyes: kiss the golden streaks.
so why would I want to go back now?
be buried and left alone again?
I'm no time-traveller,
or a friend,
so I shall not visit his garden again
but who will tell him?
who will tell him?
will you?
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