January 6, 2016

This loss I mourn
Feels like being soaked in red
From a slash to the head
Next to one
With a blood fountain
Spurting out their neck

And sitting here
Watching long twilight fingers
Slowly sweep the sun away
Grief rises up my chest like scalding vapor
And liquefies in my eyes

And my tears
Heavy and salty
Reach the very edge of my lids
But there, halt

Like suicidal jumpers deciding
“Not Yet”

Journal: Oct.26.2020
Made of Sand
Not Dura, but Alaminadura

    Leave a Reply

    This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.