Dearest Mayumi,
For the first time in nearly a decade
I was unable to breathe life into you.
In that moment, you felt so sacred, so
incredibly fragile and precious and ornate,
a Faberge egg encrusted in jewels...
rubies like the color of my love for you,
deep sapphires that scarred my soul
when I lost you, and emerald greens
that sporadically ground me to a halt.
How did it all start? With a ruse, one
that tricked me into unlocking
my pearly white gates to usher them in.
How did it all end? With a muse, one
that could destroy me from the inside out.
It has never ceased to amaze me how
the ones we care for, tend to the most
are the ones that cause our own death.
I built a wall and hid it under a Cheshire grin,
it's covered in nightfall and physical affection
with strangers who confuse intimacy with
something that I refuse to relinquish.
And within all of this, I just want them to
know that they are loved, cherished, visible.
Because, that's all I ever wanted for you.
I would trade anything in the world for
that day he called and everything shattered.
Your actions taught me to say "I love you,"
loudly, with fervor, and emphatically...
to the people who need to know as often
as I can possibly commit to saying it and
even then it may never be often enough.
What I am still learning how to do is to
love myself with the same energy I distribute.
I miss you. Everyday, I miss you.
Goodbyes float like whispers trapped
in caskets in churches where sinners
and saints and the like request mercy.
