for Castiel


When love

looks like densely

woven flannel the color of last

life in autumn, getting stabbed

in the heart

is incidental.


You knew

this was coming


marching toward the inevitable

for eight years

does not an easier

death make.

Cleaner, maybe.

Simpler, yes.

But never



You knew

that in the flare

of your last


you would see

a crumpling face, maybe


and that there would be

no more reaching

out of hands, no more

grasping the arms of


in one last attempt to revive

a lifeline long since



You knew

that as you fell

to your knees

in the crumbling leaves,

the first

snowflake of a Canadian


would fall somewhere in the periphery,

it’s fragile fluttering

the subtle bookend of your



When loss

looks like that first solitary

sign of winter, being

remade is



You know.


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