I heard you walked in my direction the other day. A wonder this statement was, the discomfort crawling under my piles of needles. It pokes and prods at me consistently until I ask:
"Do you know what you did?"
Most times I believe you did not. I find it difficult to comprehend how someone could love yellow so much but dispose of it so easily. The frown finds my face in displeasure at some points, I'm sure I passively let it fade away.
Naive puta.
The leaves are falling steadily now, the snowfall melting the last bits of hope stretched on the delicate branches. Those cold branches, how they long to break, to shatter like glass at the hint of dismemberment. What could tear such a beautiful thing to pieces?
The glass is mixed with the snow, broken leaves dusting the ground. I'm sure to break such impeccable glass, the bullet would have had to have been of decent size. To shatter, by such saddened will, would not be free will at all. The pieces would disturb the puzzle, separate the red from blue as most paint cans achieve in a paint store. If we touch it further, it may sink deeper into its grave. But if we don't, how will we save it?
YOU ARE READING
Colors Behind the Glass ✓
Poetry[COMPLETED] Lonnie has been through several life-changing events. The most impactful is the death of their abuelita and the loss of someone close to them as they came out as non-binary. They have struggled with coming to terms with these two facts...
