how it comes so suddenly;
how it startles the heart;
how each one reminds you
of previous encounters,
holding the small of her back
as she heaves, the trial
breaking in sobs, dashes
and gut punches;
how it never resolves;
how it cradles every breath
when a memory inspires you;
how it is so final, so total,
so honest that you hate it
but understand it;
how it feels like a beginning
as well as an end,
a sentence with a period,
but closure only for a few words
and not the end of the book;
how sentimental and clichéd
it makes us all in the face of it
and how we all face it,
the chilling wind of it,
the brittleness of it:
Death.

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.