Sunday, June 26, 2011


We should get together and cry.

... or have a funeral.

Please, tell me the difference.

We should pull our sorrow down to frail finger tips and hold hands compounding the distance between our minds.

Funerals are familiar faces.

They said that there's nothing worse than losing a child, but I never knew until I shook uncomfortable hands with her eyes. She said that it's like living through your own death and you no longer belong in this world or the next.

Her earth is a holding place.

Much like the girl in the next room.

Sometimes I think I can hear her soul begging to be set from from that shell of a mechanical body and I can't help but wonder.
What have we done to her?

I never thought death would look so merciful.

His hands were stiff blocks of ice and I could see the black sutures in their poor attempt to bring his lips into harmony and silence him... forever.
We have the same eyes and I was begging that he open them one more time.

He rose and conquered the grave.

Etched into my mind making an epitaph at every funeral... every wake.

I never said it out loud. I knew it was crazy before the thought was born, but death was sitting on my shoulder and I couldn't name him friend or foe.

He just was.

I will dance at your funeral if you promise to cry at mine.

I will hold your hand so tight that death has no choice but to take us at the same time.

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