She barely remembers the first time she receives flowers, a quiet girl of 6 or 7 standing amidst glaring lights in well worn ballet shoes. The faces of the audience in front of her are a blur; all she knows is the mixed rush of relief and gratitude that months of hard work have culminated into a show worthy of standing ovations and teary eyed smiles from proud parents. The flowers aren't even truly for her, she's only a carrier for them - her ballet teacher the true receiver - but she supposes that for a moment before she passes it on she can pretend the bouquet that covers her face entirely is hers, pretend that she warrants the same pride that everyone else seems to have obtained but her.

The second time is slightly different, more memorable only because she's near death (or dead, there isn't really a distinct difference at that point) on a hospital bed with the light filtering in through the blinds. The doctors can't figure out what's wrong so they inject her body with every sort of painkiller imaginable to the human body. She's pretty sure 12 pills in a day accompanied by an anesthetic drip that slows her system to oblivion has to be illegal somehow, but she can't stay awake for more than half an hour at a time to argue so she takes them in anyway. The flowers are a gift, a showcase of love and concern- although from who she really can't recall - and are a welcome addition to the dull palette of the room. They're the first thing she sees when she wakes up and the last thing she sees before she dozes off, and since she miraculously recovers after a grueling 2 weeks of pain she's sure they're magical somehow. "They must be," her mother says, astounded when she listens to her daughter speak, "I didn't see anything there."

The charm hits by the third time she receives flowers, standing face to face with a boy she's only met once but felt too much with, dim lights casting shadows on their figures. She can't hide the shock on her face as he abruptly thrusts the bouquet into her hands, pastel pinks and purples coming into view. This was never part of the agreement - although really, the entire situation was never actually a choice for either of them - and yet somehow a pleasant surprise. As they tumble into the car, she thanks him and asks his reasons for the unexpected gift although she's pretty sure she already knows. "I just wanted to get it for you." He replies, eyes sparkling with something she can't quite name but knows anyway. The rest of the night continues that way, unreal and perfect. She was right, she thinks, a smile slowly making its way across her face; maybe it'll be okay this time. Maybe it'll finally work.

-

There isn't a fourth, fifth or sixth time she receives flowers, but she can tell you the number of times she's experienced heartbreak on the tip of her tongue. She receives it in the same way the petals before have fallen through her fingers, giving her something to feel besides numbing shock. Maybe constant loss is similar to the flowers she has held before in some twisted way; aches blooming in the form of bruised hearts, wilting in the dark, temporary, fleeting.

(A.H.Z)

you are the fluttering thought
at the back of my mind,
the steady staccato beat of
my pulse, my heart, me

i think i love you the most
when my hands linger in yours;
voice ringing, heart abandoned
we are running, free

you seem so real and yet -
sometimes i forget,
this only lasts as
long as i can
sleep

(A.H.Z)

I will cradle your memory in my hands against my heart, and the pulse of it will be warm and soft against my fragile skin. These memories are permanent now; sewn into my bones and intertwined with the very core of my soul. In your silence their voices echo; how you're only one human in this fleeting life when the universe is vast and endless with so many more to meet, but they do not know you like I do, like I did.

If I ever forget the way your hands felt in mine or the way your smile triumphed over the sun's own, I want you to know that I will return to you somehow. Even if the stars misalign and this world collapses into the crevices, even if the end is in sight and my faith trembles with exhaustion, even if the distance between us grows infinitely, forever -

It's always been you,
it will always be you.

(A.H.Z)

I'll miss you till the sun breaks,
till the ground falls from my feet,
till the world ends, till I meet you again.

(A.H.Z)

i made staircases out of these bones
too young and too fast, the same way
you came and the same way you left.
in those days these lungs were oceans;
this ribcage was sinking. i only wanted
to let the waves wash over, to forget you,
to dissolve me.

we made homes in stairwells when
the light still leaked through the leaves,
when it still spilt orange over faded green.
the times when i was your sky and you
electric blue, the times the strawberries
seeped into your skin; how the cuts
on your fingers made me want to heal
you when i could only
love you more.

but maybe even after all these years
your fingerprints are still etched into me;
i will always carry your hands
in my own.

(A.H.Z)

it's in the way we'd bleed black and white,
and how i'd still come running back to you.
all the words we left unspoken and now
tangled in silence, but i still keep your letter
next to me; ink stains all over the tips of
my fingers, laced in the corners of my heart

you'd mouth the songs they played
and i'd taste the lyrics on my tongue,
voices sugar sweet and dripping;
how it felt as if i had already
loved you for an eternity

one step forward and three steps back
now i close my eyes to see your face,
trace your skin to heal these scars;
maybe this is the only way to go when
i said i'd find my way back to you somehow

(A.H.Z)

gentle petals fall at her feet, and she smiles with the knowledge that she is the real beginning. of spring, of life, of new stories. her hair curls delicately at the ends and she is translucent, limbs pale and blushing red where the blood flows anew. she holds the secrets of lovers now, lovers long past and those to be; understands and celebrates, both alone and with nature. closed eyes, quiet breaths and careful steps, dancing around joy and healing heartbreak. her sun rises in tones of crimson and faded purple, her moon hiding behind whispers of clouds, of storms. the melting of snow under sunlight is her voice, and she moves gracefully, regally.

february paints over january with a wave of her hand, turning the glitter of the new year into subtle glows, the wind and cold into gradual warmth; transitional, beautiful.

(A.H.Z)