you painted me butterfly wings when I stood as a ghost.
you ran iron through my legs, and laid me in the sea.
you let salt burn trails in my skin as I trembled.
you wrote me stories, but burned them before I could see.

he counts the number of stars held in my eyes.
he gives me ninety-nine roses, so he's the last one.
he makes me promises, and he writes them on his wrist,
so he'll never forget, and I'll forget that you're gone

then what is this madness? this trial? this ache?
why do my fingers try to reach the roots of your tree?
and when he's my sun, why do I bring back the moon?
why can't your bitter snow melt into a blooming spring?