I woke up in a garden, the other morning. People think I’ve got back since, but I never did.
That garden didn’t have any joggers, panting labs or grass sticking out the pavement cracks.
But, there was a peculiar tree with drooping bulbs like flowers which randomly opened up to sprinkle bits of lost joy, lost love.
I spent the afternoon catching them. I am beaming with love.
There were others there, standing beneath other trees and other shades. No one spoke, but I felt the care.
The air buzzed with kef and lazy bliss.
People think we returned, but we never did.
I doubt we ever will.