i.
it is in the nature of grief to cause pain, to burn like a candle wick from the inside out. it's fore-bearer, loss, is a gnawing hole in one's heart. passion has always been give and take, but you feel it has taken more than it has ever given.

ii.
'all is fair in love and war' they say. but what of this misery is fair? 'it's better to have loved and lost, than to have never loved at all.' a seed of love had been planted, and took root, and the roots took the soil with them when that love was ripped away, leaving only a hole. such bereavement cannot be comforted with such cheap words.

iii.
love is a many splintered thing, the edges cutting even as the euphoria sets in. you planted flowers in your chest, so that it may become a garden to harbor if they so chose to reside in your heart, hopeful flower child that you are. alas, the writing was on the wall, and they only grew thorns. they torched the roses and reveled in the flames as your heart withered. ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

iv.
now is the winter of your discontent, just staying one day ahead of yesterday. the ocean of your salty tears is deep, and you are barely keeping your head above the water. time is meaningless here, in the seas of your despair. your barren soul is the land that time forgot.

v.
now you know that crows are black everywhere, no matter the beauty of their feathers and the shining gifts they bring. your infatuated delusions were a far cry from reality, and you can only mourn your innocent naivety from when you believed in miracles.

vi.
you wash your hands, sloughing off garden-soil, flower-ash, and sea-salt stains. you pluck the glossy feather from behind your ear and watch it spiral to the ground. you remember. you remember. you remember. and the fiery memories swallow you whole.

h.f.m.