To my dearest, most beloved one:

                I left you tonight.
Left your cold bones chilling on the ice of the hardwood flooring.
Left your wide-eyed stare fixed upon the yellow ceiling,
the yellow ceiling we painted together last summer, when the smell of lead-brushed daisies plastered your lips.
They used to be orchard red, those lips.
Now, they rest parted, sickeningly pale, blanched white,
like two lily petals frozen onto your skin.

I held your hand.
Held your hand just like the first time, the first time in the garden.
The same nervous sweat welded our intertwined fingers together, like two twisted stems from a rosebush . . . except instead of blood-red blossoms growing from vibrant stems, only thorns and metallic truths accompanied this night. Our night.

I loved you up until the very end.
loved you through your last
                                                       stuttering
                                                                     breath.
through your last feeble gasp for air, for life . . .
but it escaped you, did it not?

So without further ado:

Lie well, my dear, among the flowers,
as I know you dreamed.

                Lie sweetly trapped in thorns,
as I know you wanted.

                Lie quietly suffocated by lilies,
as I know you wished.

                Lie alone, my love,
        alone albeit your beautiful garden.