Six months ago you left the glass on the counter,
The white film (of milk) slowly navigating down the walls,
evidence of a life carefully tended.
I am your gardener now.
So I plow your fascial furrows,
and irrigate your drying beds...
...As I stumble through the doors,
eyes adjusting to the dim and dust of life,
my heart, remembering yours, beats with something like love.
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