The Garden

I sat on a rickety old chair inside the garden this morning and watched as the birds circled overhead as if waiting for me to die. Soon enough I tell them. What else is there to my life now?
All happiness has vacated. I walk the halls of this lonesome home wondering where I went so wrong. You were here just 10 short years ago, sliding on the hardwood floors in your slippers that were made not to slip. Your blonde hair cascading over unusually tan skin; too tan for the
winter season. You would have sand in your shoes from constant walks along the icy shore. I never did you wrong. I never meant for you to be hurt. I never meant for you to die. I never meant to kill you the way I did. I never lied to you. Why did you lie to me? The images in my mind of your presence are out of order. I see you as you were on that summer evening; blood trickling down from a gunshot between your eyes. Still, more beautiful than anything on this
cursed planet. Then I see you as the young lady I met so many years ago; spinning like a top on black heels. Our dance was a mystery. Did you love me then or was it later? Did you love me
at all? Did you love him more than I? Nothing matters to me anymore but the garden I have planted myself in. When the vegetation has grown around me and my heart no longer beats, then will you see me? Or will I have to enter through the gates of hell to find the two of you together
again?

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