I laid him to the table,
my precious prince,
and I kissed his copper eyes,
and I let him
sleep his final sleep,
and I have not breathed
a single moment since
without feeling the loss of him,
heavy and deep.
He was mine in a way
no one else ever was.
I was his in a way
I will never be, again.
One day, I will dream my way
into wherever he has gone.
I’m going to take a moment to spread not fiction, but hope. I have a small but wonderful group of readers, and if this somehow helps even one of you, it’ll have been more than worth it:
A list of suicide hotlines, by country
You are not alone. You are important. You are loved.
Depression lies.
RIP, Robin Williams. You’re a legend. You will be so, so, so missed. Bangarang.
Drowning.
Going down.
The last light
in the top of the world
going out.
Reaching up,
one hand,
fingertips slipping
below the surface.
Away,
away,
remembering the taste
of laughter.
I had forgotten
what it was like to fly,
until your hands
closed on my wrists.
I had forgotten
what it was like to breathe,
until your mouth
covered mine.
I had forgotten
what it was like to be so consumed,
until you promised
forever,
and I felt myself soar,
and sing,
and burn
to ash.
How much more blessed
can I be
than to have you
always waking
next to me,
wings unfolding,
sky unraveling,
world un-done-coming,
sweet kind of
honey bliss
untempered
untouched
by anything resembling time?
In our next life,
I’ll peel you
and you’ll set me on fire —
but for now,
we love
and it is enough.
