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Photo By: Dustin Hollywood
It’s a slow sort of death, I think.
I’m trying to hold your particles, but my clumsy hands are too big.
Watching you erode, but not in peace.
A slow burn, a steady breath, escaping your painted lips. You look into my eyes longingly. Frantically. Panicked.
In a moment, I realize you never learned how to let the air back in.
It’s a slow sort of death, I think… but we are all dying, aren’t we? Can’t we just figure out a way to do it together?
Maybe someday, in the far future, they’ll dig us up and find our bones intertwined.