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You told me you loved me 

on a spring evening

when the sun had already set

and the flowers outside were fast asleep.

Their petals bloomed beautifully, 

displayed like a rainbow cast after a rainy day,

even though there was no light to be shed. 

Scarlets, emeralds, indigos,

all frozen in time.


But then our ship capsized, 

flipped from the suddenness

of the uneven weight 

we held.

Of all the weight

I held. 

Our previously potted garden,

the one too lovely for words, 

had drowned along with everything else. 


I didn’t think I could feel so much regret 

over something that I didn’t say,

something that I didn’t do,

something that truly never was.

But you left me standing there

with an open heart 

and empty hands,

stranded in a treacherous storm, 

wild sobs and crying thunder 

over the new summer sky. 


How is it possible 

that I felt more alone with you 

than I did when I was on my own.

Like a single firefly 

left to brighten the entire sky 

on the Fourth of July 

after the last few fireworks 

have faded away,

and nothing but silence remains. 


However, the isolated autumn stretched on,

the quiet winter flurried away,

and, once again, the spring settled in, 

smelling like fresh soil and new beginnings. 


So here I am

with a fresh spotlight of sun on my face,

in a newborn garden of my own,

as I continue to replant the seeds of a new flower.

Jessica Garrison is a professional writing major and women's, gender, and sexuality studies minor at Kutztown University.
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