We spent our summer growing gardens in your back yard, where I'd watch you bleed poppy flower red and crimson rose. Butterflies dancing over tall grass... I'd catch them in my mouth and they'd make a home inside my stomach. I felt them flutter back and fourth by the sound of your voice; Grape leafs and peach trees... we waited years until stumps were skyscrapers. You fastened your noose around the highest one and dangled like a weeping willow, casting a shadow all over everything... blocking sunlight for months. I watched the whole thing change from an assortment of green and pink hues to a gray and brown plot. I cut into my ribs and picked the wings off of each butterfly that lived behind them just so that I wouldn't be reminded of the absence of your voice by the lack of their flight. I miss you.

I'm writing to say that I've finally shed the last layer of skin that your scent lingered on and I'm sorry that I let the thought of you sit stagnant over my bones for so long.