Last of the Violets

We met as the last of the violets

faded into tomorrow,

and died.

You cried upon the emtpy loam,

now home to the graves

and slaves

and beginnings of all.

"Why tears?"

It was cold then.

I watched on, in crisp curiousity,

as your arms wrapped around yourself,

hugging,

as though attempting

against all odds, not to warm a shivering body

but to vainly hold everything in.

There was gasping

and shaking

and snot.

"Why not?"

Raspy voice, hair blowing loose, you held

your summer eyes up to mine.

Sky blue.

And death was beautiful.