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.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s