She loves to haunt me with what used to be us.

She loves to lie on the bed naked, deep within the confined walls
of my memories.

She loves to make me remember her just when I’m about to forget her.

She loves to see me crept in the corner of the room unable to move on.

She loves to cradle me when I am at my most vulnerable.

She loves to drink the tears I’ve cried over the next ten years.

She loved me, and yet I still love her.

She confines me.

it's fall now --
but you probably call it autumn.
you've always loved that name.

you say it springs something in your mind,
something new, something wonderful.

you wanted a daughter with hazel eyes
to match the leaves
and a beautiful, bright smile,
the kind that melts ice
when it's zero degrees outside.

and you would never call her anything
not associated
with this season,
which i thought was funny,
because i've always loved the nickname
"pumpkin".

but none of that matters anymore,
because you're into winter now.

you like the cold,
and the wintry frost that blankets our town.

all your views have changed,
and you want to name our daughter death,
because now, that's all you ever
think about.