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The window held no answer. Thoughts still ate my mind like cancer. I studied the tendons in my hand but I couldn't understand their purpose. She struggled at the surface. Now a line of fixed smiles. Keep your eyes fixed on the roofing tiles, just a vacant gaze. These are strange days to grieve. A party of dead leaves and memories. A series of soft speeches. Homeboys gather in their breeches. How can we find words that will remember her without sounding trivial. I know I don't know how. It comes as sure as the next season. But I can't find a plausible reason. We are infinitesimal, but our grief enwraps us all in its breadth. Your breath still hangs inside the receiver. The leavee has it harder than the leaver. |