The love inside will always burn brightly

even for the weed that has replaced the blooming flower

as it creeps up against the wall tightly,

for even the sickly green of knot weed has illuminating power.

The adoration of things turned sour,

the memory of the good that came before,

that hide in reflection as they cower

before the boom and bust of relationship law.

Yet I hold the memory of you dearly,

I cradle it like a child, in innocent wonder

and whisper, cajole it to stay alive, to breathe.