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Thousands of miles north she sees my eyes through,
The aperture of her door.
And I see her's reflecting off a kitchen knife.
I feel her marrow in my bones.
Hundreds of pages torn from a notebook.
Full of words that never meant anything anyway,
Just like these.

Her halo made of broken glass from the windshield.
Her body shot like an arrow in an acrylic painted circle.
I use the shrapnel to chisel an epitaph into an empty field.
No one will bring flowers to an unmarked grave,

She always hated roses anyway.

Silence falls over the burial site,
As a veil of spring rain shrouds the road.
She always hated roses anyway.

You should have seen how beautiful you looked with a face full of glass shards.

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