5332 Getting used to dying without you

In my body, 

As in a garden 

Of nostalgia, 

Thorns grew 

Tangled 

In the echo 

Of your clandestine 

Absences.

I am a nursery full of 

Withered 

Flowers of memory,

Without your sun, 

Without your dew, 

I am gardening 

Oblivion, 

Getting used 

To dying without you.