I am so sorry for everything I put you through.

Do you know what you did?

They've never seen the likes of what you have of my utmost heart.

The path to it is all grown over with thorned vines.

And you thought it was pretty. Sunny.

There was an air of reckless abandon on it you couldn't,

can't, help but admire.

But you prefer paved roads made of concrete.

So you put up a gate and charged $100 a head.

Nobody but you would see the intricacies

in how the flowers grew in the dirty dusty road,

so would never think to pay so much to pass,

and slowly you would so starve me of company

and hoped the dirt would dry and turn to ash;

for you to mix with water and stick bricks in;

for you to relegate to another back-road for your personal use.

But I've loved you for the time you spent walking with me.