she reads the pages of my pain
aloud
over and over and over
until it's 4am and there is nothing left but the dark.
desperate to recall
pictures of her like words scrambled together in books
lost over time.
she was beautiful, she was everything.
her blue lace hands and sweet, hot marigold summers
the stories of that winter, snow falling over rotted leaves
washing all of it clean.
she reads
until the sun breaks open the stone blue iris,
and the birds recall her voice
her hair soaked from the first spring rain.
she reads
to remember, to forget, to heal
to break her heart wide open
to feel
and stand on the ledge but remain.