My breath is barbed; skeletal strings shift into smoke, drifting into the shadows as the darkness will choke.
Pearl snow stuffs my skull; my grandmother in an earthern womb, sleeps under it all. A tombstone the last thing we bought-- a report card of her life: She is with Him in Heaven, In Paradise... With Him, Without Pain-- is speculation but turns into thought.
The icy steps do not deter me as I sit on the crooked concrete spine; speaking to her, hoping the snow does not make her cold, any more, 'I can stay a while longer... I do not have to go home, yet.'
Eco-friendly light spills from under the door, forming a pool as yellow as diseased skin. The brass doorknob is like a girl I once loved: ******* the outside, hollow in the inside, unable to be moved and okay with it. Fury from a faucet fills the bathtub and rings my ears with its intent: to fill a void and go away when cold.
She lays in the water the city treats better than us, wading in a wealth of watermelon wash; her body flushed from fading flesh, pores swim and stretch around cursive carvings, kissing cursed curves-- and I sit upon a bone-white curb, stirring my finger in the soup of her day; watching the drain ****, wondering if she'll, too, drift away.