And when I leave you,
It won’t be the gradual chill of winter mornings
Found in the beginning of the season,
When berries hang fat and red on their stems
And birds puff up their feathers,
Like old men hunched down in woolen scarves and mittens
Lovingly made by old women.
It will be a plunge into icy water,
A brief pinprick as the heart shudders
And the limbs slacken, sinking into the lonely dark.
A fitting shock, a fitting end
For someone who thought my fire
Could be taken for granted,
And rekindled on a selfish whim.
– Sara Myriad