horrors

to my horror
you have gone and left
whispers and petals
in tidy, little piles
for me to find years later,
when the ash of you
has become dirt,
and my voice, just an instrument
for your stories

Floating

the only thing that sounds good is sleep-- like waves crashing on my pillow, blocking out any other noise from my life. I can look forward to a different world, a different scene when sleep overtakes me-- there's nothing bigger or better. And the whole cast is there, waiting for me, and I can hug each one and pretend they still exist without melting into sugary puddles in my hands.