It’s the same seam on either side of life and death. It steals sleep. Its respite’s tears.
Weave, mind spark. Let’s fill what’s gone. Let’s sew it up. Let’s wring a passable texture there (but, no.)
“Give up. It’s closed,” she says with her small hands. Her warm cheek settles against mine.
The world just isn’t the same because some people are never really gone. Death, just like a child, does grow and need you less.
The hues we carry on our backs embolden our descent as we become much more of who we really are.
Exhibition 1874 