The room was warm;
her skin was cold.
Machines beeped.
Suddenly, they didn’t.
It was a silence
i still scream forever.
My favorite angel—
born before her time;
the one for whom
i waited a lifetime.
The more gentle parts
of a broken man…
i held a tiny hand.
one that i just can’t
fucking let go.
The hand i feel
whenever i close
100 proof eyes..
Her absence—
the gap in my soul;
her memory—
the burn in my gut..
i stand, alone,
facing an East Wind blowing.
she sleeps, unaware,
in velvet of Irish green.
Far away from me,
on a little hill
filled with big sorrows.
in the haunting symphony
of my intimate melancholy,
hers is the sweetest note.
a harmony born
in the enormity of heartbreak;
one born on that terrible grey day,
when we had to say our goodbyes…
