I regret letting him back in.
The blossom I’d planted for him
had nearly died in the shadow of time gone by
before the veil of forgotten joy was ripped.
In poured the memories, as brilliant as light from the sun;
warm and life-giving.
Up sprang the possibilities of what could be,
like vines come to suffocate my conscious mind.
I stood aside while my reality was smothered by rich fantasy
and welcomed it.
“I want to surround you like heavy mist resting on expectant blades of grass,"
I would say to him.
“Soak me into your skin and soul; drink from my fountain,"
I would demand!
"Discover my valleys and rest in my canopy,"
I would beckon.
I would be everything I knew he was missing;
everything he didn't know he needed.
I would fill in the blanks and rearrange the pieces.
I was selfish.
I am selfish.
I am still not ready.