Blossom

Betty Fox

Resting in the soils of time where your hand was in mine, I now leave you behind in the confines of the space where we once coexisted. Sun, soil and seed; dig me up and dispose of me.

Though if there is ever a place where your face graces mine and your rays intertwine one last time, I will not object. I will not release the suppressed bitterness and regret.

Instead, I propose a new love, flourishing under your nourishing radiation, though I have not seen the sun for so long; and I long for warmth. And so it is begun.

Lacklustre growth, endless yearning, a harmonious irony between longing and changing. I adapted to you and your flickering unreliability. You are not solar but synthetic

A grow lamp in a darkened room, and I am buried in every lime-scaled wall. You cannot change, will not estrange yourself from your comfort in the darkness in exchange for a comfort with me.

In the open air we could have lived in the illusion we had envisioned, sun, soil, seed. Though if your hand finds mine in our coexisting time for the last I will smile kindly and decline

Instead, I will succeed into air, grass, sun, for I cannot grow in the confines of your darkness and artificial light; for in hindsight, I was right. And by right, I flourish on my own.