You used to look at me like I grew flowers in the deepest pits of your lungs. Your breathing changed each time we spoke as if you were exhaling their fragrance and then breathing it back in. Their tenacious vines clung to your bones and impatiently wrapped themselves around your ribcage and suddenly I was inadvertently suffocating you.
All the while, the garden in my core was bare and infertile. My stubborn efforts of watering were futile as sunlight refused to continue to radiate from my haphazard heartstrings. Hopeless and desperate for florid growth, I sought the sunlight of another.
There was none that I could find. Instead I settled for fire, foolishly believing that the two were mutually exclusive. He left my lungs scorched by the time he was done. His heart was coated in ashes that seemed to multiply with each shard of innocence he took from me. His soul was arid. It was nothing but desert land. And no matter how hard I tried, I could not make flowers grow there.
You were a meadow that I was too proud to notice. I was blind to your flowing springs and gentle earth. Your soul gleamed in my direction, trying to guide me by a light I was not ready for. But now I feel it. It ignites the inside of my being with a warmth I cannot accurately articulate.
But I no longer grow flowers within you.