The Words I Whisper

I—warned—you

these are the words I whisper,

words caressed by the wind

soaked in angry tears.

‍

I warned you

what would happen

from that very first moment

you strayed into the stars

on that silky moonlit night.

‍

I warned you,

but you soared into the sky

and dipped your fingertips

into the blue-tinged clouds

until your entire hand

was frozen and raw.

‍

I warned you,

as I held your fragile fingers

bathing them in warm light

like melting butter,

watching them turn pink

in the dim glow.

‍

I warned you, 

as you sneaked out

of the frost-framed window,

your feet hovering off the ground

as you spun into the sky.

‍

I warned you,

as you flew above the curtains of steely rain,

and as you broke out 

into the clear blue sky

with the sun beating down on your skin.

‍

I warned you,

as you tunneled through a fluffy cloud,

coming out shivering on the other side

and closing your eyes,

suspended in mid-air.

‍

I warned you, 

as the sky smudged with pastel pink

and spun the clouds into cotton candy

and the sun melted 

below the horizon.

‍

I warned you,

as I dragged your ankles to the ground

and held you by your shoulders

yelling, screaming, scolding 

warning you.

‍

I warned you, 

that flying can only lead to falling,

that dreaming can only lead to crashing,

that having your head in the clouds

will not save you 

from the world.

‍

I warned you,

as you hovered in the sky

buffeted by the furious winds

unprepared for nature’s anger,

for the dark side of whimsy.

I warned you,

as you collapsed through those

beautiful, white clouds

that froze your skin until

it was as fragile as glass.

‍

I warned you,

as you slammed into the ground,

spread-eagled on the grass

as morning dew settled on

your still eyelids. 

‍

I—warned—you,

and these are the words I whisper now,

feeling your spirit swirl around me,

whipping my hair

and whistling into the night.

‍

I warned you.