So much to be said, done, written -

I am far too tired
to make sense of the universe,
of the dark energy in our veins.
I'll just sit here and trace
the constellations of leaves
on the sidewalk
and let the wind blow
the dust off my bones.

I'll just sit here
and practice the art
of breathing,
for there is a certain poetry
in being still long enough
to feel the subtle
undulating of the earth,
the quiet panting
of life.

Everything starts with a good-bye.
The pain, The shame, The wish to cry...

Feels like falling into a pit,
But like a bird we must open our wings,
Let go of any strings, And fly.

And if we fail, so what?
We shall hold our head high.

We did not give up,
We did no accept to simply... die.
Smiling when desiring to cry,
Someone else's life started...
With our final good-bye.

I know what both heaven and hell feel like.
Heaven is the thought of you possibly loving me, while hell is the bitter reality that you don't.

I dream and when I dream, you are sometimes there.
You did not die.
Instead we talk of how scared we were that you would not make it through.
How it was a terrible time for all of us
But now things are back to normal.

It seems right and not strange at all that you are part of things as ever you were.
But this is a dream, though I do not know it,
I never do.
Only when I wake, does all the sense turn to nonsense
You did die. I did lose you.

But I grasp the notion that these dreams are perhaps a way of telling me that somehow you do survive.
And somewhere round the corner just ahead and out of view, you are.
One day dreams will be and I shall wake from waking.