afterwards, you found pieces of yourself
drifting in the air; but never back to you
fevered forehead almost singed bare hands,
but pulled away just in time, two silver strands caught between
clammy fingers, and wasn’t your hair black like hers?
eyelashes mourned the spiderweb shadows creeping underneath your eyes,
and clung to the mottled skin of your cheek instead, waiting
for those tender fingertips to brush them off
and you never believed in tears, not ever,
but they said no remains were found
and something like rain dripped onto your palms
the blower of kisses, weaver of campfire tales, singer to the ghosts in the attic.
she loved to shake the puzzle box like a maraca
and whisper to the plants when no one was looking
and wrap herself in tulle curtains and call it haute couture
she said some puzzles were meant to be left unsolved,
and you asked her which ones.
now, you have split in the middle,
and the puzzle no longer fits back together.
there's not much of a story behind this - just wanted to get my creative juices flowing and work on my imagery haha. hope everyone is well :)