Life, a womb scent fraught. A seam on either side of life and death, the same. And, they both steal sleep. (respite’s tears)
Weave the mind spark, let’s fill what’s gone. Let’s wring a passable texture there but, no.
Give up. It’s closed, she says with her small hands. Her small 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 were.