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Personal Note:

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I was turning the bed,
knife-deep in dirt when I felt it:
that ache in the wrists
from too much tending.
And there she was again—
not in the muscle,
in the memory.

Being her friend was like this:
feeding a ghost with phantom limbs,
never full, never proof enough.

She wore collapse like a weather system
borrowing against good nature,
demanded every last bit of attention—
prostration over a missed text, 
a misunderstanding—

I miss her.

Not that she'd ask,
too committed to the bit: bad marriage.

It’s a loss—
how she wears his damage
like it’s all that’s left of her.

I loved that woman,
but it forced me
into the role of indentured meteorologist.
It felt like violence.

For my part in this, 
the reason it lasted so long is simple: 
I kept watering the weeds,
drenching her with active listening.
(The desire to be needed is intoxicating.)
It's a mercy for us both
that I didn’t get addicted.

I hope you understand 
it wasn’t kindness,
nurturing that climate—
just the worst version of nice—
kept her stuck, 
left me starved for reciprocity.
I had to walk away
before my spine bent 
to match her trellis.

In light of today, 
tomorrow I’ll plant marigold and mint, 
lay down bone meal—
small things
that mind their own business.

Anything to keep my hands full 
when the memory of her breaks soil again.

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