"I've become an officiant to my morning coffee’s marriage to almond milk (organic). I find myself reading your words, used to express another man’s sentiment. How ironic, they were originally mine. Amusingly, a muse to everyone but myself. 

My mother visits, she breaks down my boxes and tells me the reason I can’t love is because I can’t get over you. The hydrangeas have grown a foot since I moved in, no one has commented. Maybe they haven't noticed. There are cobwebs under the deck but it doesn’t matter, no one will pay them any mind either.

Growth and decay, all at once, with no one to officiate, just like my love for you."

"I’d gifted you many things, but in the end, I took them all back, rendering you giftless with the exception of the things that cannot be taken.
 
I’ll welcome her home and question if the roses should be pink, if dinner should be served at 7 or 8. If she even has an appetite anymore.

I’ve recalled the horses and the lily pads till the fields were filled with 8, then 9. Till the pond had no water at all.

From the spring to the fall, giving it all again to take it back once more."

"At the edge of my future, I sulk. 

I called her and apologized that I couldn't be exceptional. Neither of us had even had coffee yet. 

That was the day the neighbors cut down their tree, opening their skies and I chose to open mine. 

I went home to clean a garden confettied with cherry tree dust and the ashes of the only thing I’d ever chosen for myself."