seasons

[the_k_files]

I know you have to go.
I will grieve your flight from here like a summer
without birds.
Our season was a Canadian winter.
Our garden was a cemetery
that embraced feather boas
and party masks.
I followed you north in the spring
and left the butterflies to metamorphose
alone.
They hung from my window
until the first snow
and I was no longer visible to the naked eye.
They left their cocoons
on the sill,
which I saw only when it rained
or you locked me out of your house.
Your collection of bones
built the walls of my home.
They held me oh so tight
until that morning, I woke up
screaming for skin.

I know you'll be fine
because you can convince yourself
that you had NEVER failed to
admire any flower
that you came across.
But I know, I know better now.

When I miss you,
I am missing the pieces of me that you
burned in your fire, love.

xx