worm moon

Yoana Tosheva

(the Last Days of March)

Spring is the season of death. Forget fall with its gestalt of leaves; what do you do when there is an abyss and one day it stops holding you so staunchly? Spring anneals you into a different form. When I’m so drunk I fall and scrape my knees all I’m thinking is please, please let me remember this. Just as last night when I lay on top of you, and you squeezed my hand a little tighter all I could think was oh my god, oh my god, is this the closest we’ll ever get? All the grief excreted and sweat stained my shirts, all the trees reached out and tried to latch on as I clicked by on the sidewalk (in cowboy boots, no less), all the birds wanted to talk but I didn’t speak their language. This week I’ve been washing the last season from my body – spring cleaning. What is more painful than shedding the old self? All day I’ve thought about the first time we met: the time capsule of it, the folded, faded love note of it, how you whispered I’m so glad I walked over when I saw you sitting there, alone and I could only echo me too, me too.

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Yoana Tosheva is a student, an immigrant, and an artist. Her work has been published in Diminuendo, Wack Mag, Anser Journal, Sixty Inches From Center, Trampoline, Red Fez and elsewhere. She runs a blog about music which you may peruse at https://collectivecadence.home.blog/. Her visual art can be found on Instagram @yoana_art.

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