Go Well

She forgave him and it liberated her,

Praying that somehow, on the winds

His spirit would know it was well with hers

And his sighs of sorrow

Would become breaths of peace

Until his body no longer required them.

Warring fingers.

How do I give his soul wings

And be his breath to fly

When the hands that built 

The bow

Also made the arrow.

Some of Her Stories.

She had walked too many miles

before she realised 

no amount

of steps

would ever make him

love her.

Are you happy here?

No,  I can still hear them.

He might have perceived their 

noise

but he could never 

have discerned 

the sounds

of

their spirits

breaking 

slowly,

from within those 

office walls.

How do these numbers piece together?

What do these letters mean?

The only answer I know is love me,

her heart silently replied.

You.

The way your fragile body folded itself into mine was both a comfort and a knife.

The greyness of my heart and the dense deep descending over me was established in the overwhelming grayness of my existence.

You gave me hope and life and then you slowly took away every last thing one painful moment at a time.

We found each other, in the presence of clarity when I bled and realised, you were bleeding too.

Drowning in Dissonance.

To create is to live, to liberate. To not do so is the end. It is apathy, unfeeling bones encased in tomb like skin, my pulse no longer palpable.