you were born on the cusp of spring, a breath of warm sunlight coaxing bright life back into dark husks of wilted stems and barren souls in need of bloom.
i died the day i came to life. a beginning amidst the beginning of the end. four days of stuttering heartbeats later, i was hurried home under a heavy sky of god’s tears and thick cloud
your eyes are sick with grief in winter; i think your chest aches to heal the fragile, frosted frills of flowers that suffered and struggled and surrendered to the cold
you are burdened by empathy for the crumpled caskets lining the flowerbeds, impatient for a fresh start so you can refresh these corpses into new life. new roots and petals flourishing in the image of your beauty
you are a god i could worship. you are a god i could believe in. you are a creator of life, and colour, and new starts you created happiness within me, so i can only hope to do the same for you
i, dead the day i came to life, belated winter baby with blue lips, blue veins am alive for perhaps the first time in years sleepy, but still awake—breathing, blooming as if spring came early just to kiss the feeling back into my fingertips
a fistful of sunflowers clenched tight, and with you by my side my chest is set alight with a sun’s ray of hopefulness that the day will eradicate the night.