it happened because you left Letra

she, the baby of three, asked how
so many things could take flight at once.
there are no easy answers, and even at thirteen, i
could not think of a sure reply.
at the church where i was baptized,
our father refused to park neat the crowd
at that time, i still believed in god, or faeries;
or that the air could catch on fire.
when you and your friends took off on seperate routes,
i wanted to follow you.
but our mother said i was not allowed to.
you had not yet learned how to fill such a broad frame.
that winter you said you hated your body,
but when spring came, you learned how to speak,
and you moved out west
to watch the ocean eat the coast away.

i can still remember that day you left,
thoughts spilling out from my chest,
like "who will you be when you come back"
or even, "will you come back?"