A re-examination of one of my past relationships.

When he was happy, his eyes lit like lamps:

The source of the tugging unkown.

He swam in the ceiling, drowned in the paint.

Countless wishes wasted on my wanting

Are lost in those orbs of placid lake blue.

What was born as a garden, withered.

Water merely drowned us, stole our last breaths.

We had become weeds, stealing the soil.

We were plucked from the earth with no warning.

Sometimes I miss those bright Morning Glories.

The End

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