the beekeeper.

grief. ii

the last time it snowed like this,
you were well alive and stubborn as always.

we fought so much that day;
you angrily threw me against the furniture.
i lost my patience and slapped you, yelling out,
"don't you dare do that to me!"
but you didn't care.
you bulldozered through the thicket
and put my shins in a paper shredder,
but oh i would gladly take the aching legs and bruised kneecaps
if it meant you would be here.

you gave me piggyback rides and someone to talk to.
i gave you peppermints and all the love i could muster.
even so, i don't think i told you "i love you, big guy" enough for you to comprehend
that if you ever disappeared i would have a hole in my heart
and in my stomach.

i suppose you never thought you'd die.
i suppose i never thought it would be so soon.

flurries have lost their luster,
and the cold that never bothered me now bites at my fingertips and nose.
with you gone, soft flakes have become sharp icicles of mournful remembrance,
and i can't look at the white without my eyes blurring from tears.

i miss your hair intertwined between my numb fingers.
i miss the subtle smell of hay against your neck.
i miss you throwing me frustratedly into the snow.

i want it to be summer so i can melt away your memory.