I cut out a piece of myself and left it on the windowsill.
I left a trail of pieces, leading to the cottage bedroom where I slept in a regretful bed. For nights, you didn’t follow. Then you let the snow bury my exit out and whoever finally appeared in your stead had nothing to do with you, and whoever said a haunting might be pleasant should be shot. You might as well be dead, standing on the other side, in the clearing, while I stood on the far shore, carving uncomfortable spaces in the underbrush.
Here’s a secret: I made a man out of sticks then I blew him down. At least let me arrange the imagined flowers in your hair so that, to me, it means something.