Before You Left

Before you left
the garden grew buds
like the color of snowcones
and cotton candy and
sweet barbecues
filling my nose with the essence
of your fall-off-the-bone ribs–
and this garden told stories
of late night conversations
with my head against your chest,
and the roses looked up
with blush in their cheeks,
and the orchids drifted carefree
in the breeze as the bees
and the lemmings who
jump so readily off their cliffs.

I remember when they told me.
I remember what you told me.
I remember the things of which
I tried to convince myself.

This garden is browned now
and grey, with weeds and mold
in the furls of once-fertile earth–
The only things that grow
are the water lilies, and those
I place at your grave
by the towering cliffs
above the swelling ocean,
and the ocean lives,
and the breeze breathes,
and the flowers wilt,
and I sigh,
and you are silent,
as silent as our memory.