You had wings once. I saw them form the heart upon your back, the black and cracked one that settles in soft skin. The only proof that they'd been there at all.
I see you fold them up for good as you fold your hands in your lap. The casket is lowered into the ground, and your eyes never leave it. Not once. Not until the ground swallows it up and the snowflakes that have started drifting settle into your hair.
And I stand here, wanting to be with you, far more than I've ever wanted to be near you. But everything is lighter afterward, and before is dense and heavy, and too thick to touch.
I want to go with you as you take your mothers hand and let her lead you away… but in the end I know that it's better for these things to stay dead. So I look at my tombstone, the only proof that I'd ever been here at all.