I'll Miss You, My Bluest Rose

Hidden in corners, and books with cutout pages,
I hide her shattered remains,
In packs of Marlboros,
Reds, her favorites,
and pill bottles emptied
in the cool summer nights.
In betwen the pages of the books she read,
more in the ones she wrote,
her voice still echoes
and yet still, a sliver under the mattress,
and a splash in the dragon-clad flask,
scream in eternal denial,
that I have taken over.
Droplets of her blood stain
her old sheets,
my bed amongst the carnage,
my bones against her cold, lingering presence.
When I was small and quiet
she mused with me,
listened to my hushed sing-songs,
paying little attention
when I whispered,
"I'll never leave"
until we were alone, together,
and my voice filled her endless silence.
She begged me to stay.
She asked for a way out,
I showed her the door,
thin and worn,
that I beckoned to her
from the other side.
I embraced her life,
in all it's painful glory,
the friends who were not friends,
the loves who hated.
I lived them without care, because they weren't mine.
I am a manifestation of loss, I need nothing.
I made her like me.
Her broken heart
frozen.
Her feelings
numbed.
She became nothing,
she became me.
And the night she cried to me,
asking me to let her out
one
more
time.
I obliged.
I'm the one who handed her
the blade.
I'm the one
who cleaned the mess,
hid the body,
took on her life.
She didn't want it left undone.
But we're doing it my way.
And now
she's
not here
to stop me.
But yes, sometimes,
when I look out in the rain,
I remember my red splendor,
and my polar counterpart.
I do miss you, my bluest rose.
Just not enough
to
bring
you
back.