prose about loss
Yellow curtains are drawn.
The sun’s beams brilliance penetrate the brightly colored window drapes, though it is on its descent, closing the evening.
and the glow in the room is heavy.
Everything feels like bulk this week.
Pinned to the bed when I wake up in the morning,
sluggish with leaden feet when I move through the house,
my mind full of iron with sparse thoughts to ping pong off the bars and turn to dust
filling my senses with the smell and feel of disintegration.
Dust is what we become and yet the good memories, the loss of my friend and my family, all hang over me like a pressure-filled storm cloud.