I sit and hold your hand. The softest hand I’ve ever held. Dainty fingers that were compelled to make art.
In any medium.
A personality as big as life in a still body that just couldn’t do it anymore.
Eyes closed but not sleeping.
As I watch you struggle to breathe, I wonder if you are still in there. Is your mind rambling around?
Your body is not telling me any secrets.
Are you afraid? Are you sad?
Or are you already gone?
I tell you everything is going to be ok. Not to worry. Everything will be fine.
But I lied. Nothing is ok. Nothing is fine. It’s all a mess.
I’m a mess.
