What I wrote this morning

I woke up to the endless tragedy of your death.

Sat there

The word, endless like a metal ball

Caught warm and pulsing in my own throat


I reached,

My fingers elongate

As if inverse,

A mother bird removing substance from her young.


The metal ball

Clotted blood warm in my open hand

Viscous, spreading

A tacky web of darkness

Not of my own

Not of my own


I got up

Followed its single red thread,

Coiled into my own shaky hands

As I walk


Through the empty door

Through the empty hall

Into another room,

Familiar except for now,

Your little bed

Your little empty bed


I wake up to the tragedy of your death



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