I wish I could hold on to you for a little while longer.

I can’t recall which swept me off my feet first: your art, or your ocean-blue eyes.

I had been searching for art that reflected emotions I could only translate into melodies, never paintings.
We shared the same artistic taste. We had the same favorites. Our hobbies complemented one another, as if they had always belonged together.

My heart danced at the sight of what I had been wanting to decorate my garden with, especially when you told me that you weren’t living in one.
I had arrived consumed and depleted, and I wasn’t looking to try again. But it felt comforting just watching your wings flap and hearing you hum. It gave me hope.

But this moment was never built to last, because time cannot be frozen except in our fantasies.
You told me you had a garden that you built and loved, but now it was burning.
You told me you wanted to fly away, yet you would rather let yourself be engulfed by the flames.
You told me you had promised it forever, and you weren’t going to break that sacred vow.

And now I’m left with a million questions echoing through the void.

I’ve fought this battle a hundred times before. I had glory, immortality, and charm. The fire consuming me on the inside “I was made for this.” roared every bone in my body. I wanted you to circle around mine.

But something told me to put down my helmet.
Do not bother looking at your sword, for this time it is not your ego that will claim your life, it is the catastrophic failure of your heart.

Now I sit here, tears building beneath the surface, wondering whether keeping a piece of your hive in my garden will help revive the colors I had long lost, or whether it will become a poisoned thought that burns everything I have left.

Because what is the worth of a garden, if it cannot have you in it?