you confessed that when you were little you would pull apart monarch butterflies because they were much too beautiful--
so beautiful that they made you feel uneasy.

(you always did call me the most beautiful thing you'd ever known.)

it's almost december now, and the only reason i wish you were here is so you could make snow angels and i could rip off their wings.

---

you wanted a kite for your birthday, so i got you one that was shaped like a bat and we took it to the beach, watched it crash into the surf over and over until it was bent and broken. i rescued it from the tide and surfaced dripping saltwater -- you told me i looked like the goddess of sailors lost at sea.

after that day you put the kite in the back of your closet and forgot about it, but immediately began talking about getting a new one.
something bigger.
better.
that could fly higher.

i sometimes tell myself that we were never meant to be because i was stuck in the ocean watching people drown while you were hanging from the clouds by kitestrings.

---


i found a one-winged sparrow hopping along the side of the road and brought it to you, sobbing helplessly.

i still thought you could fix anything.

you took the frightened bird carefully into your hands and stroked it's glossy feathers appraisingly. then, before i could stop you, you broke its neck with a quiet snap.

"it's okay," you told me, cupping my chin and smiling beatifically.

"what's the point of living if you can't fly?"