Faded pink petals
lined her burgundy hair
as she lay immortalised
in her casket.
I let my sorrow spill out,
little drops brimming with grief,
and all of the things I had left unsaid,
they lingered in the haze of my pain.
She still smelled like rosemary –the earth—the sweetness before a thunderstorm,
when they lowered her into nature.
My lungs expanded sharply,
a pang in my chest daring to take me with her,
but I turned and walked on wobbly legs,
I walked away from the one who never left my side.
They say that anger is part of the process
but I did not feel anger
the softness of her energy wrapping itself around me.
I felt so much dissolution towards myself.
When I looked at my wrists
they were infested with holes
where my skin had begun to deteriorate.
I grew weaker until one day I could not climb out of bed
and I knew I would see her again soon.
My mind pirouetted through fields of daisy’s
and everyday her voice grew stronger
as my legs melted into the sheets.
I don’t remember what happened after that
except I awoke, here in this silence,
to a light shining through my being
and her lips pressed against the pulse of my neck.
“Me and the pen, we are one. If its ink would cease to flow, my ink would cease to flow.”