of me, little by little
little bites
sinking into old wounds every time
and I let her
because just like the trees open their hands to the snow
I do love the idea of dying slowly
loved and afraid and being told
you have nowhere else to go
open the door slow,
take what you need and leave a trail
for me to follow
and one day, most likely in the early Spring
I will crawl out
like a timid little thing
and your footprints would have been suffocated
by the roots of those trees that were
waiting, waiting for me to let go of you
and pick up all those old pieces
that had grown into someone new.