Poetry

Black Garden

I don’t want it to be true
I don’t want to love you
I don’t want the memory of you
Beside me
On top of me
In me
I don’t want to remember
Your eyes as we gazed upon each other
In the afterglow
I don’t want to remember
your sweat mingled with mine
I don’t want to remember
That final kiss before you slept

Do you remember
The scent of my skin?

Do you remember
How you felt between my thighs?

Do you remember
Those special smiles
The ones that were just for you?

Do you remember
What I cannot forget?

Do I want to forget?
Indeed, I do.

My eyes are dull and gray
The roses that bloomed between my thighs
Have wilted and grown thorny
Entry not allowed in this dead garden
There is much pain beyond the gate
Passion is dead
What once was wet for you
Turns to ash on the tongue
My heart and legs are closed
They only drip with blood

Do I want to forget?
I grow weary of remembering
But, then I recall the scent of you
The feel of you
The smiles that were just for me
And I know I will not

Who will care for this black garden?
Who will nurture the dead?

3 thoughts on “Black Garden”

  1. Loved your writing. I related to your entire poem. How you finally think that maybe just maybe you are over it and it can be put to rest and than a memory or scent hits you hard and you are back in there. I understand. Hugs.

    Liked by 1 person

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