It sounds like playing the same song over and over, thinking about the weeks leading up to losing you: death occurs after the limbo, but before we can hear your voice again.
I am still falling into the fleshy womb of fear, its warmth separating me from time, and you are not here.
It sounds like leaves crushing into dust, thinking about the minutes leading up to losing you: a strange place, fading before we can find you again.
19 March 2024
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