Simon, and myself

I don't know what to draw upon right now. I've felt poetry in motion, and I don't know how to express it. I've felt the bite of an emotive song, but I've never regurgitated it back out. I used to be so fruitful, so energetic and committed to everything I've done, but now all I feel is caged in, emaciated, and broken.

But you fill me. Maybe that's why I swallow. Maybe it's symbolic of what you given to me. Nectar that has restored the little desire I have left. Without you, I cannot be me. Perhaps that's codependent, unhealthy, or any number of negative words. But you are so beautiful.

I am not a wilted ivy anymore. You've begun to nurture me, and my leaves are slowly regaining their rigidity and moisture. I've nested so long in clay and dry, depleted soil, but since meeting you I've found the richest bed I could ever imagine. 

But I am not vibrant. I am not healthy nor am I flowering. I am recovering. But I am not dead, and I will not give up on myself like the ivy on my windowsill. Nor will I give up on this. You and I are everything I have ever wanted in a garden. And as fragile as that beauty is, it is unmistakably ours.