Halcyon

December's Ivy

I remember my ritual from our last December,
A long call, awaiting for the newest minute of the newest year,
Empty spaces heard me whisper, "It will work out this time."
And in the deafening silence, bearing no witness, you acquiesced.

We danced on the edge of our cliff-hanging garden of forever,
Your ivy of lies crept quietly into my garden, tight and neat,
I should have sensed the creeping green before it wrapped my soul,
But you said that ivy's grip was how it kept things whole.

We sat on the balustrade of our untouched garden, 
As I wove a quilt from the fabric of ever.
When I turned to water our dying blossoms,
You pulled a thread from my woven quilt, complained it was ugly, and that you never meant to stay.

I wove us together every time, in delicate exactitude,
But you invariably unwove me, thread by thread,
Your reasons, like whispers in a language I couldn't understand.
I continued to water our dreams with hope, but you let them wither in neglect,
Your affection bloomed too late, wilting before it could blossom.

And the castle I built, my, my, it was made of glass all along,
Shattering before I realised I had no fortress, not anything to own.
Now, ivy laced with glass shards and separated threads seeps into this December, my December;
I must run, I must leave, I must flee,
Before our paper kingdom is set ablaze and takes me with it.

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