Her hand was far too warm.
scars and broken knuckles
that were never fixed
atop soft, small fingers
so still and feeble.
my tears were far too wet.
two twin rivers
flowing clear
from my two twin pools
of watery wet pennies
behind blinking eyelids.
the streams merge together,
fall down onto the bed.
the sheets were far too white.
a thin layer
of cotton snow
spread across the broken beauty
of precious, one-living landscape.
my words were far too few.
“do you remember
when we were at the playground”

[this same time last year]
“and you were running around
like you were six years old again?”
words cut by sobs,
salted by the tears
of the angels in the room.
Her eyes were far too red.
star-studded blood
staring infinitely into
this cold, harsh reality
that the world
would soon be a bit dimmer
once the life support was gone.
so wide they were open,
even though nothing they saw
for the reason She was moving
was a seizure,
guiltlessly gesticulating her body
in ways that tricked the eye
into thinking she might still be Alive.
“we love you,” we cried, heavy with guilt.
“good-bye,” they said as we started to
leave the room.
i took her hand once more,
trying to will away the fact

that She had taken her own life.
“peace to you,” i whispered
for She deserved nothing less.