Winter Flower

I hope that this winter is cold.
Like the winter in which I met you.
The winter in which I believed that
My delusional world was real enough to live in.

We separated in spring, immediately after.
I lost your warmth, but my fallen heart never knew
That I had lost you too; and I held on to you,
Like a dying tree holding on to its last leaf.


But in the end, the tree has to die,
It has to let go of the crumbling last leaf
That once gave it life, and the will to live
Even though it was on the precipice of death.


I hope that this winter is cold,
As the one in which I realized I never had you.
The winter in which I blamed and hurt you
For my faults, insecurities, and obsessions.


The winter in which everything that was me washed away,
Like a storm washes away a dead garden.


The flowers that I forced to bloom have withered.
The path that I created and set upon has broken.
The lights that I imagined were there have darkened.
My world which was never real has fallen.

I wish to delude myself again of a dying garden, not much.
But I know now, even that is not real.
I wish, in this cold winter, to lay down on your warm lap.
But tonight, this hard, cold, and real earth shall be my pillow.