You were still.
So still, and honestly, I don't know if I was more surprised that you didn't move or if I would be more surprised if you had moved.
He was crying- well that shouldn't have surprised me either- everyone was crying.
People say death is a glorious thing, a remembrance of life. Death is not all that,
death is cold concrete in winter. A dish washed clean for the third time.
Finally falling asleep at 3 am, and then, even that isn't sleep.
Walking by your room and knocking on the door only to remember that you aren't there to answer it.
Leaving clothes piled by the door, just so I don't lose anymore of you.
Deaths hand is dripping, with salty, shaking haematic raindrops.
So gentle. All soft, sweet and scarlet.
Like the glistening red raindrops that fell from Persephone's pale fingers.
Our souls collected in dusty hands.
I learned something from this, and it surprisingly it isn't that pain fades and summer comes again.
You cannot escape this. Death is imminent,
it follows our footsteps, it traces our spines
Death comes, a silent reaper and thief of life.
Death is echoed on our faces. It nestles in the wrinkles of the old and nests in the dimples of the young.
Our essence- our souls- are dying, slowly, shuddering, barely breathing.
But even stranger, is that fact, that even though you were taken from me,
so harshly and so very quickly, you had peace
and I suppose, what I'm trying to say,
is that you were just so still, and you shouldn't have been.
