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

DSC_8400_1

 

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