I opened my windows this morning and

The sunlight poured in through the blinds, streaking

My walls, illuminating the fresh roses

Swinging gently from my shelf, coating all the

Things I hold dear with 

Molten gold.

I am how you created me. I can’t deny that, I can’t

Deny that there is charcoal on my fingertips, oil

Streaking my lips, roots wrapped

Around my wrists. Molten gold dripping from my jaw.

But I’ve buried you, and the blisters on my hands have

Stopped oozing shimmering ichor, I’m

Unwinding the cobwebs from my palms and I think I can walk away now,

Leave you there and go far away.

I don’t take it back.

The whispered poems, the tinkling silver bell, the pools of secrets burning cobalt between us, the

Faded rosewood promises.

I don’t take any of it back.

You can have that piece of me.

It’s yours.

But I’m leaving, finally. I’ve started walking and I’ve

Shed my horns and my hooves and

I speared my rib, etched with inky goodbyes,

Gently into the ground above your head.

I am traveling to the temple of the moon. I will

Find another You, kneeling there, the

Silver folds of her dress spread around her,

Rippling like tide pools on the blacksand beach.

I will find her, in lakes of candlelight, in downy hills of moth dust.

There will be another you.

There will be another you.

(And maybe this is the last poem I write about you.)