By Design

Your power was my own now,
but it felt foreign to my fingertips,
You had been a stormy stone for so long,
struggling to summon me home,
just bones, returned to the earth,
your name etched into the slab of grey,
no guilt, just a strange discomfort,
and an obligation that never felt quite urgent.

It was nothing to be frightened of.

I recalled a verse from a long lost friend,
wooden boxes, and someone he truly loved,
and I wondered if I’d ever be able to write for you in the same way,
scolding myself for the lateness of my grief,
surprised at how cruel and cold I could be.

Did you make me this way?
Does it matter?

I wore a crown of chrysanthemums and chopped onions the day that you were banished beneath the soil,
but it did no good.
My eyes were the Sahara,
sandy and sapless,
and I was cruel and cold,
just the way you made me.

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