Draft 2

[Verse 1]

The invitation came on heavy, cream-laid paper

A world away from attic rooms where dust motes used to dance

We painted with a single light—no caper, just the caper

Of trying to make rent while planting a forgotten romance

And I remember you, your palette-storm

A twilight bruise of ultramarine, a genius just taking form

[Pre-Chorus]

You mixed the air with lavender and ground-down charcoal, wise

Your canvas was a wilderness where breathtaking things grew

And I offered you my cadmium, but you just closed your weary eyes

And said, “Keep it.”

“You’ll need the light for the pretty lies they’ll buy from you, instead.”

[Chorus]

And now my walls hung with wisteria, a violet, choking waterfall of praise

A creeping, curated vine that climbs and blocks out all my days

Every compliment is peony, far too heavy, far too scented red

Blooming in the fertile place where masterpieces lay to bed

I wear a crown of laurel, but it’s woven with a thorn

A funeral bouquet for the genius cultivated, never born

[Verse 2]

They hand me trophies shaped like lilies, cold and pristine white

I stand on stages bathed in the spotlight’s synthetic hydrangea blue

And I talk of “the old struggle,” but keep it a sanitized, polite

Arrangement of the hunger that was truer lived with you

And I sell a million canvases of poppies, bold and deep

While I dream of your last charcoal sketch, the promises it kept

[Pre-Chorus]

A garden of potential that a bitter frost would keep

A single, flawless orchid that the world was too asleep to see

[Chorus]

And now my walls are hung with wisteria, a violet, choking waterfall of praise

A creeping, curated vine that climbs and blocks out all my days

Every compliment is peony, far too heavy, far too red

Blooming in the fertile silence of the masterpieces in your head

I wear a crown of laurel, but it’s woven with a thorn

A funeral bouquet for the genius who was never born

[Bridge]

Sometimes, in the greenhouse of my success, the air grows bitter, stale

And the wisteria twists into the shape of your moniker where

A thousand forget-me-nots begin to whisper and to wail

From the soil of my compromise, a ghostly panicker

And I’d burn every orchid, every rare and hothouse bloom

To see your hand just once more tracing light in our unflowered room

[Outro]

So I plant nightshade in the shadows of my guilt

A border of deep poison on the fortune I have built

And in every sprawling garden, in every bright bouquet

There’s a single, empty vase where your self-portrait used to stay

Just a stem of absence and the scent of yesterday

Just a stem of absence, faded all away

Draft 1

[Verse 1]

The invitation came on heavy, cream-laid paper

A world away from where we used to scrape the sky

With brushes dipped in coffee, dreaming, chasing caper

While the landlord’s angry roses climbed the sill outside

[Pre-chorus]

And I remember you, your palette choked in umber

A garden of half-finished things, a desperate, lovely clutter

You gave me your last tube of cerulean, a number

And said, “Go on, then. Make it sing. Just mutter something subtler.”

[Chorus]

And now my walls are hung with wisteria, a violet waterfall of praise

A creeping, curated vine of five-star, perfumed days

Every compliment perfectly, too heavy and too red

Blooming in the silence of the words you never said

[Post-chorus]

I wear a crown of laurel, but it’s woven with a thorn

A bouquet of “I made it” for the one who was unborn.

[Verse 2]

They hand me trophies shaped like lilies, cold and pristine white

I stand on stages, bathed in the spotlight’s forced hydrangea blue

And I talk of “the old struggle,” a sanitized, polite

Arrangement of the hardships that were truer shared with you

[Pre-chorus]

I sell a million canvases of poppies, bold and deep

While I think of your last sketchbook, where the fragile ideas slept

A garden of potential that a bitter frost would keep

A bouquet of “what could be” that the world overstepped.

[Chorus]

And now my walls are hung with wisteria, a violet waterfall of praise

A creeping, curated vine of five-star, perfumed days

Every compliment is peony, too heavy and too red

Blooming in the silence of the words you never said

I wear a crown of laurel, but it’s woven with a thorn

A bouquet of “I made it” for the one who was unborn.

[Bridge]

Sometimes, in the greenhouse of my success, I swear I smell

The ghost of dandelion wine, the dust of sunflower shells

The cheap, determined daisies you stuck in a jar of clay

The wild, unkempt, and weedy truth we lived in yesterday

And I’d trade all the orchids, every rare and hothouse bloom

For one more choked-up chuckle in our shared, unflowered room.

[Outro]

So I plant forget-me-nots along the edges of my guilt

A border of blue regret on the fortune I have built

And in every sprawling garden, in every bright bouquet

There’s a single, empty vase where your portrait used to stay

Just a stem of absence… and the scent of yesterday.

Just a stem of absence… fading, faded all away.