My listening is brittle but I know that You saw the smallest things: I couldn’t see one leaf. I grew them in my head and burned them down. A lord. With you I became small so I could dive into your glass. Do backstroke. You tended us small things. To balance on a spoon, to wear lungs on our back, to center on a pinpoint deep inside while falling from great lengths. After you left, we did that.
Life, a womb scent fraught with death. Or life. It’s just a seam on either side the same. Both sleep they steal. The only respite’s tears
you try to weave the mind spark to fill what’s gone, to 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 And, death, like 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.