For numisma. Merry Christmas.
( ephemeral )
When she was a child, she loved the spring.
Spring was when Kohaku was born.
She watched the trees grow tight little buds, and the flowers bloom.
At the foot of an old gnarled oak spotted with spring green, Kohaku took his first steps.
Swaying in the spring breeze, warmed by the noon sun, she never worried where those steps would lead.
When she was a teenager, she enjoyed the summer.
Summer was when life was fun.
The heat made her feel so fervent, and alive, and bursting.
In the shade, Kohaku would practice with his sword.
Lazy afternoons, they'd sneak away, and splash in the river like the children that they were.
When she was grown up, she was afraid that autumn would never end.
Autumn was when Kohaku grew up too fast.
Sometimes Kohaku came back to her, scared and empty.
She'd hold him, watching the leaves fall, and count the minutes until the brightness in his eyes died all over again.
Every time he walked away, the dry leaves would crumble beneath his feet. Once upon a spring, they were so green and alive.
His path of death is always continued.
Now, she hates the winter.
Winter was when Kohaku died.
The first frost of the year chokes the last life out of her cold heart.
Beneath the gray sky, she slips inside his skin, and shivers at the icy feel of it, wondering if hers will be the same some day.
His heart froze long ago. She removes the black magic in his back that keeps him alive still.
She kisses her way down his spine, each one an apology, and watches the brightness fade from his eyes for the last time.
The snow falls fresh on Kohaku's grave; his body has long been its own coffin. Her slowly beating heart is the only requiem.
She curls up and wonders if spring will ever come to melt the winter away.