death.

by ty

He clenches his fists –

reddening knuckles and fresh cuts

against his white complexion;

he wished he was

paralyzed;

or perhaps numb.

Trudging barefooted against

the cold icy pricks of gravel;

monochrome memories

sepia nostalgia –

against her soulless eyes and

hostile breath.

He knows what they all say –

too much of heaven’s a sin;

They say that time flies,

but she kept breaking its wings.

Insatiable hunger for the

sharp features he’d grown used to –

the chiffon that slipped past

his fingertips with ease,

the scent of daffodils as she went by.

They once wrote eulogies for each other,

the day he was diagnosed with

merciless things that ran through his nerves.

And now as he lay under the dim moonlight,

his fingers run through the grass as he mutters incoherently;

the moon his audience,

the sky fading to black –

whilst the nightmares come back.

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