our lives, a series of events. it is as if two small apples had fallen from the same tree.
and there they lie, their guts spilled out onto the lawn. birds making holes to take what is left
before winter comes and goes again.

and what is,
what has been and what could be
mean nothing.


i held your hand like it was my last day on earth. but you'd never have known. walking through the forest,
the trails winding and branches breaking around us, i felt content for a fraction of a second.
the sun's beams like a halo above you. every freckle on your shoulder knowing it's place, it's purpose.
and here was i, standing lowly in your presence.
all of the times i had tripped over my own two feet
or my words, every time i had been late for the train,
the time i ruined your sweaters in the wash, or
the many hours i'd spent writing books i never finished
when i could have spent the time with you,

the light painted over me, and your eyes saw something clean.



hurrying along on the street, rain falling into the spaces between your legs
and rainboots.
once we made it inside, i realized
i had held the umbrella only a half an inch too far from you and your ear was cold and wet.
but you never said a word.



everyone says i cannot freeze you there like that in my mind. that the bad must outweigh the good.
that you must be a demon who was sent disguised as clouds and lovely things. but if you were then it stuck.
and whoever sent you did a **** good job.
everyone says that i need to go back to the day i first saw you and stop there
and just
remember
the times before i knew you.
but your words are too strong to forget and every time i walk by the flower stand on the street
i see your favorite colors and i see the crown that you made and
placed in your hair the day that we were both so sure we wanted this.
this, together.


my brain splits you up into all of these pieces and i can't gather
the ones that have been spread by the summer's breeze, or the ocean's waves
or the ones carried away on the wings of night's fireflies.
if i could only capture them all
like a still life photograph stuck in a jar
maybe i could come unstuck from you
and piece you together in an entirely new fashion,
painting you like the devil that you are
(or must be).


even just this morning i made a point to be on time for the train
because i knew that you would be so proud.
and like some unspoken prayer or a letter written but never sent
i wished so long and hopelessly that you could know.
but the day is over now and you won't
you won't leave the note on my door that i've longed to read
you won't call. you won't ask a friend how i've been.
so i've bought these brushes and pens and paints and ink
to try so hard to draw what i could never see

as i stand here looking at the last picture i have left of you
i hear these words so clear in my head
"take a picture before i paint over her. she is beautiful, she was everything."

and i wish that i could but i can't. because you're not here and my hands are too broken
to fix the old camera i used to photograph you standing in the rosebush by the lake,
thorns in your knees and red petals in your hair.