this... mourning!
what a complicated gift to bear, Father.
how is it a treasure to hold, if not a treachery of the heart (my own) bare and unashamed of its overflow?

i think to myself desperately, at a perpetual fault: it will never be enough. Oughtn't i to be mangled up and down by spurs of marigold scented linens and funeral roses, to wither and meet you in heaven?

in your stead, every night my head swells and my mouth falls open. if this is a prayer i let go, then make it a cool balm to my fevered soul -- heart alive.

if my Lord's own head bows toward the earth, then the blood flowing through my veins too is yours to claim for however long this hurt is immaterial. i miss you the most, just tell me how many years.