poetry: One

Death barely born,

Grief a teething babe,

You hover inches above,


It feels like yesterday,

You were floating away.


Ethereal fact,

The reality hovers, like you,

Over my life,

This, a pretence,

You’ll float right on back.


Knife draws open,

The deepest cut,

Heart splinters,

Tears erupt,

Sleep an unreliable friend.


Two begins,

Perhaps, to accept,

You floated away.


Or, another time vacuum,

Of pretence until,

The knife cuts at three.

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