The sound of the ivories being played lifts attention to my beating heart. The melody so sweet and without charm pierces my senses. I sing out into an open space, finding myself in a clearing where my wilted flowers lie.
A once beautiful meadow built for color and life.
I blame the sun,
the moon,
the omnipresent belief that something else is to blame for my carelessness.
Oh, how carefree of me to believe in my fallacies, to believe someone will bring light to replenish me, to grab the weeds of my regrets, and my rotting decisions by the roots and say no more. I have fallen to my knees a few times; to plead for an answer, to pray for a solution, to ask for absolution. In this intimate space I have no audience.
This piece of solace offers me lucidity, a place hidden within the bounds of my identity.
I have rehearsed every smile you may see.
Every laugh you believe.
Life is a spectator sport, and it has never been kind.
I blame myself for my ingenuous reasoning, you could never understand. Every flower that has lost its vigor was because of an ache of the heart. Every beautiful work of art that lay, wilted with the presence of pure sadness. A sadness that a kiss turned sour, yet held such sweet passing memory to savor.
I loathe this place as much as I adore it.
The trees still hold a sum of glee, a picturesque perspective of what I used to see. Makes the past glisten brighter than when I lived it, longing for something that has gone.
I will blame myself once again and maybe my entire life for destroying my beautiful white rose. A flower that grew from mistakes that is now so divine.
This place, from what I lost, I plant anew.
Growth will come from understanding, others trust.
One will grow for love without the bitterness of what was.
Everything will be worth saving, all that is in this place.
These thoughts rested behind my eyes and no one will ever know;
A garden has regrown.
-AB
Wishful Thinking 
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