what the garden whispered to my ear

1. leaves

i sit in a wooden bench my mother bought from a lady in town, the seat leaving wrinkles on my clothes quickly.

she was born on may nine, little dots on the corner of her smile. would she be fine, will she stay until the leaves pile up under the trees?

the vintage filter plastered on her face makes me dizzy, the roses in my poetry wilted so suddenly.

i mistaken the streetlight for the moon, why was i foolish enough to pray to the leaves when i know they will leave soon?

green, like the bubbles in our conversation. the plants in the pots can't connect to the ground, but still, as if it's blooming rather than aging, flowers and leaves grew more than it ever had in its time on earth.

promised all the leaves of paper for her love, the ink wouldn't come off of my palms. what had been so scary for me that i compared what we had to the wrinkly leaves? will she, like a leaf, leave me someday?