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
