The Queen Anne’s Lace bloomed early this summer.
Last year, it was late, the last of it not dying until the snow fell.
We too faded as winter came, wilting until we couldn't survive any longer.
You said it first, out of anger – telling me all the reasons I had become distant and cold.

All you wanted was a distraction, a reason,
But I was too anxious for that, tearing myself into pieces to give to you as presents.
You said you only pretended to be angry, but I knew from experience –
There was rage in your heart.

You said something else that night that echoes in my mind to this day
Each time I set pen to paper with you in mind, it is there, too.
“It’s going to make one hell of a poem.
One hell of a story.”

K.A.