Haunted

Beloved, I'm the one you left behind. And here is one of the million things I've written in loving memory of our love.

Haunted

Fransivan MacKenzie

You gave birth to myriads of questions when you let our love die. Or so that's what you think you did. Your country western boots crushing autumn leaves. The taste of October and November fighting over their grasp on the breeze. Your exile was as quiet as a whisper in the wind. Little did you know, I had my way of turning skeletons into seeds. 

You let our past rest in a cemetery you never had the strength to visit. Meanwhile, I grew Cornelia flowers over each unmarked grave and watered them everyday. In loving memory of you, of us. I turned your wasteland into a picturesque landscape.

Your gravesite, my garden.

Your wordless goodbye, my longest eulogy.

I could make anything out of something deemed unworthy. But none of these things could make you love me, still, even after eight years.

Reviews

[John the Baptist]

Most of the poem seems an effort to show independence or indifference, but the last line seems also to show a hint of regret. Some wounds take longer to heal than others.

[Fransivan Writes]

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