The Garden That Cursed Us

There is a garden where no sun shines,
where roses bloom only in the color of wounds.
I return to the garden each night,
drawn by its scent of dying petals.
 
You wait for me in the hollow quiet,
your figure soft like mist against the thorns.
I feel your gaze before I spot you,
pulling me in deeper than darkness does.
 
When I reach for you, the air goes still,
like if the entire garden holds its breath.
Your touch is cold, yet familiar,
a vivid memory my body refuses to let go.
 
We stand together in the wisping mist,
bound together by the echo of a love undone.
The garden knew our sorrows well,
and keeps our secret in the trembling leaves.