Our dead friends live forever. It's a sad thought though, but each time we think of them they take a breath from this side. It's like each of our memories is a hoarcrux and we've tiny bits of their souls nestled into ours. They become the threads in the fabric of our being. Every smile, every word... every smell. I can remember how he smelled... an odd thought to process, but I also remember thinking as he lay in his coffin that he didn't smell right. You see, his spirit had fled that body a few days previous but those tiny seeds remained in me. Crushed as I was, he grew in the fertile soil, watered by my tears into a mighty oak astride my soul... and though he was the first of a garden, he sets the entire tone for each tree after. And I will maintain each one, and carry this garden in my mind each day, even as time prunes branches from the trees... I will water them still.
YOU ARE READING
Floating
PoetryI've collected a lot of works I have made for me and thrown them into a mess of empathic poetry I have done for others.
