This hurts my feelings. But I was flawed all
along — you left your home for mine, and you
got homesick, so I rebuilt it, unaware
that one can be homesick while wanting a
new life. I, and your garden, became mere
reflections of you, and you’re sick of that.
I cry about it, but I understand.
I only hope you remember garden
and I fondly, because the memory
of love’s forever, if we don’t kill it first.