Once I spoke your language. Every glance. Your every expression. The subtle meaning behind each word uttered. Your questions — crying for each falling snowflake.
“Is it dying?”
Now you prefer palm trees and sandy beaches. Tropical flowers.
I told you to imagine what it would feel like to be free.
No more rules for fallen snowflakes.
But you chose to run — to the next adventure. One expedition after another with plenty of detours.
You hoped to escape karma. But the scales weren’t tipped in your favor.
If I had known you were a dreamer, I wouldn’t have missed you quite so much.
If I had known you’d discard the book of poetry (with the decoupage card I made — for you alone), I would have sent magic beans instead.
“Is there a way to make it right?” You asked, as the snowflake disappeared.
It’s too late.
You already turned out the light.
[In response to Flax Golden Tales Writing Challenge]