shoughts (ii)

August 27, 2018

I felt her die; the child I never met. I was up that night, restless; and feeling a loss I didn’t understand, I kept writing poem after poem about death and my fear of loving. I didn’t even know then, that she’d been birthed; didn’t know she existed until she was gone. One week later.

And I kept wondering how possible it was, to mourn someone you never knew; to lose someone you didn’t get a chance to love.

And I’m no longer sure it was her death I felt. I think it was your pain.

Made of Sand
Not Dura, but Alaminadura

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