Purple Wild Flowers

Yes, I know—I have used up all of my luck, a squanderer of seasons. I burned the prairie with my beloved purple wildflowers. Now there is no grace period of your spring, no passage back— no ticket to your full moon. Yes, I deserve it. No more miraculous blooming, no more golden orbits beyond the limits of human knowing. I watch myself wither under a sky without you, trembling in the wind like the last leaf that winter refuses to claim. And still—my heart aches at the accident of encounters, at every sudden resemblance. My soul keeps searching for your outline in the void. I painted your shadow on the cave wall of my own black hole— and there, you became the tattoo etched into my soul. In dreams, you still speak. Only there do the words return to me— the ones that never crossed the threshold of breath. Forgive me.