Carrot

That's what I called you.

Because you had soft amber hair

That would brush over your shoulders

Before you cut it,

And it was always

The first thing I noticed.

Not the melancholy,

The quiet that hung there

Every once in a while

That was your own

Silent acknowledgement

That you were different,

And that you felt

The eyes on you.

The eyes and the hushed whispers;

The hands concealing the mouths

That spoke of how you

Supposedly treated people's sisters.

They were wrong.

They were so wrong.

And I was wrong

For only telling them that

Once.

Because I actually thought

About believing it for a second.

But I never truly did,

Because you had the kindest,

Most beautiful soul.

But I have found

That the most beautiful souls

Are the most fractured ones;

The ones that look like cut diamonds

And glittering shards of glass,

The ones that catch the light

And reflect it back at you

With pure, white brilliance

Only look like that

Because they have so many sides

To their shape.

They are jagged and complex

And hard to draw

Because so many shards

Have been chipped off

And lost to the darker parts

Of their own existence.

And you were so wonderfully sentimental.

But I have also found

That the most sentimental people

Are the most fearful of things they love

Slipping out of their grip;

And so they clutch what they cherish

With white knuckles and red fingers,

Forever doubting the strength

In their own violently shaking arms,

Forever existing within the assumption

That everything

Eventually disappears.

I hate

That you were right this time.

I became another piece of data

Flickering within your own

Self-enclosing construct,

Another dying star

Added to the constellation,

Building upon a picture

You could never unsee.

I went against

My own glimmer of hope

That I tried to instill in you.

I broke

The most important oath

A person can make.

And you have made me sentimental too.

You gave me so many things to cherish

That I wish I had clung to

As tightly as you did.

And yet all I have left of you now

Are flowers;

Paper-thin, delicate things

So easily crushed

If my palm closes too tightly,

So easily blown away

If I can't keep a steady breath,

So easily incinerated

Into crumbling grey ash

If gazed upon too intently,

Like sun concentrated through a looking glass.

I keep finding myself

Learning more about you.

I still discover pieces of you

Floating about,

Illuminated like particulates

In a stray shaft of light,

Invisible

Until you look hard enough,

Until you acknowledge

Their significance.

And I'm looking very hard now.

Searching for answers

Hidden within them,

Batting at them like a child

That has yet to develop

A sense of ephemerality,

Yet to understand

That they disappear

The moment the eye

Can't follow.

I have so many questions

That will remain unanswered.

Did you resent me?

Did you curse the name

Of your deserter,

Beating your fists

Against the hard dirt

Until they were dripping

With blood and bitterness

And excruciation?

I never asked.

I know I’m not the reason

It happened.

But I could have been the reason

It didn’t.

It’s been so long

Since I’ve seen you

That I only learned about

The last years of your life

After it ceased to exist.

I've still only put together

Bits and pieces.

But I know you were loved.