spring tastes of melancholy and restlessness.
the clock counts down to the time
i can finally strike the match and set the suitcase alight with orange flames.
don't worry, i've got my clothes and mementos safe in my fragile arms.
they're bruised, scarred, and burnt.
but at least they can still carry the weight.
people always say, "oh, won't you miss your travels, though?"
sure, i'll miss a few, but that's why i have
the silk dress of a thousand kisses
and the hat he wore with me.
(i'm not throwing all of it away.)
everything else can become one with the ash.
i'm tired of placing bandages onto wounds that won't heal.
i'm tired of soothing voices that won't listen.
i'm tired of blocking my face to defend myself from a brutal punch.
when i walk across the charred land and pull out the seed from the dead soil,
i won't have to look back at the shadows anymore.
i'll smile wide and hope for a land of green pastures.
and when they ask, "what happened to them?"
only those with trustful mouths will know.
so let the fire consume the leather and the letters and the pictures.
i have better adventures ahead.