I spent two years calmly collecting the pieces of you,
the boy I love like the music.
I remember the way your auburn eyes stared at me when your body turned to glass,
and you were split and scattered across the horizon.
I walked through forests, under redwood gods, looking for the subtle gleaming of your shards in the soil.
It went on like this; I’d find another piece, smile at its lovely shine, and place it in my basket, continuing.

I wasn’t alone, though.
Sometimes I’d see a piece sitting on a leaf miles up
and The Wind would be watching.
It would gently blow you off, floating you to my breast, my hands grasping tightly.

I lifted a stone to find a piece in the arms of a Spider.
A single tear fell from one of its eyes as it handed you to me, understanding.
As I walked off, it slowly waved as it wept.

When I went north to find you, and saw a piece locked under the frozen lake,
the Sun outstretched a warming ray to melt a hole,
one just big enough for my hand to lift you out of the arctic.

For months I searched, but it was not a sad hunt.
Because every piece I found brought a memory of your laugh,
your long fingers,
or the coolness of your neck.
And every time I was scared at the impossibility of it all,
the melancholy kindness of the hearts surrounding me would remind me that
all I had to do was keep looking, and eventually I’d find all of you.

My basket was almost filled, and with every piece I found,
my face would glow in your bliss.
I sprinted across the gray desert, kicking your shards out of the sand.
And in the exhilaration, I barely noticed the great ocean I had come to.
I had reached the end of it all, found every piece of you I could,
but you were still just fragments in a basket.

I collapsed in front of the Sea, shrieking your name until
the screams scratched my throat.
The Sun and the Wind and the Spider and every wonderful Thing that helped me
crowded around, mourning.

Our tears flooded the shore, raising the tide.
The Sea filled up, and lifted the basket, carrying it out to the end of things.
It drifted out further,
until the sum of all your pieces and those two years seemed like a little gleaming speck itself.

And then, at the defining line of the world, the Moon shot up.
Slowly at first, but gaining momentum, it exploded into the indigo sky,
becoming larger and larger until tenderly taking its place in front of me.
It placed your basket in my hands, and laid your final golden piece on its top.
Light enveloped its wicker frame, and it burst in an eruption of sunset sparks
and everyone stood with shining eyes as the colors took shape:
two arms, two legs, shaggy hair, auburn eyes, long fingers.
And then you stood, collapsing into my arms.
We silently held one another for some time,
and in unison everyone sighed with a quiver in their voice
at the aching beauty of all things.