Hooded Bones
A Poem
The second stage is anger — the sheer fury which leaves an acrid taste in your mouth. Saliva pooling like a blueberry slush. The stench burns like rotting garlic — black as ink. Mold is over growing, creating a deadly wall — blocking the purity of my breathing. Breaths are heavy now, now that you’re dead. All I can dream about is how our plans were so real, So alive. We always had Paris, our muse, our home. Tokyo — the daffodil yellow of the advertising screens creating a surreal glow around your body like a halo. My dear angel, love of my life. Let me join you — cradle me in your arms like a precious bairn. I curdle my milk in my throat, creating a thick and chalky paste. Choking — spitting and sobbing. Raking my hands through psychedelic vomit, I pick the nearest mushroom and think of you.
I am connected by your death
Authors Note: I am connected to the death of the only man to have ever loved me. His passing came long before we could be physically present.