It’s spring again, and I’m already expecting the little moments. It’s not weakness, I can tell myself that. It’s realism. Cold, hard, realism.

You weren’t cold.

You loved spring. I was cold. You were spring.

I'm expecting the little moments. I walk outside, and a hummingbird whisks by. It stops in midair, and floats, tiny little heart beating tiny little pumps powering tiny little wings that stand unblinkingly before Isaac Newton and his insurmountable laws, defying them.

You would defy them.

I was always scared. They were always there, but you were always there.
I was expecting these moments.

But this is what breaks me. Pretend me, holding on to crutches of pretend cures, because they work. I work. Because the gardener's propped up a tree outside with bits of blue tape and knobby support sticks but the thing was bent over at the roots and all the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't. They just couldn't. It's dead, because it couldn't. They never stood a chance.

Because I couldn't. And one day,

you left.

It's not them who break me. And it's not you who breaks me in the end, not even the little memories of you. It's me, it's me: and you couldn't put me back together again.