Aubade

 

Featured in Emerge Literary Journal Summer 2013

 

There were thousands of mirrors

laid out upon the birch white sands.

Your hair was

black fire in the wind,

and I was scared to touch it.

 

We walked for miles that day,

the black-foam sea devouring our footprints behind us.

The air hung thick

with the scent of damp wood,

and the honey-orchid that you held by your side.

 

We talked about the death of beauty,

and you told me you didn’t believe

in such things,

because there was always beauty

in death.

 

Evening came on like a bruise,

and I held your shivering form close.

I would have held you forever

if you needed me to;

would have died if you needed me to.

 

When dawn was upon us, I held you

but for a moment longer,

then you leapt into the dark waters like Poseidon himself,

leaving your honey-orchid twirling

in the morning breeze.

 

I reached for it,

like a child reaching for his mother’s hand,

but it had gone too far.

I knew if I was a bird

I could have chased it.

 

You came and stood next to me,

and we watched your flower float into the sun

until it was too bright to bear.

I turned to you, but your face

was too bright to bear.

 

So I looked down at the sand,

at the thousands of mirrors, some cracked,

some split in two,

but most just reflecting

yellow-orange petals spinning in the light.