(murdering seasons)

he spreads his naked hands against the
and shivers
and with frozen lungs he
shooting down springtime
with arrows clawed and
molded from the marrow of his bones
and draws them, tugging on his aching heartstrings.

before he leaves
he says to me

all i ask is that you
think of me when you see
those eyes in the sky
weeping stars.

i beg him not to
but his will holds stronger than
his shaking hands
and truer than his
false, wet eyes.

night falls to its knees when i approach
vengeful and clutching my remembrance

but i must go

(and he touches my cheek)

because i do not want it to fear me anymore.