like the bits of pieces,
of choco chip cookies,
sluggishly sticking to the edge
of your molars.
like the flashes of eyes,
across the sea, staring at you
wondering why you blacked out
in a garden that only tends weeds.
like the faint baby blue
in the evening sky, botched
with the runny yolk of ochre.
they stare at you, in condolence
as you give up on your life.
like the bits of pieces of cookies
that ferment your gums,
cavities taking shelter.
a safe abode, but not for you.
we all come and go. rise and return.
air sinking into the roots of earth,
liquid dissolving your bones.
is that why death always comes in bits and pieces,
while your last breath is the final nail
on the coffin of life.
father death, mother life,
is this what we have come back to?
the autumn in your eyes says yes,
the winter in your lips says no.
what do you say?
you don't really say anything.
because death comes in bits and pieces,
or alternatively bits of pieces.
is there a difference? there is.
mother life, father death,
answer me.
if we are all bits and pieces,
where do we really go?
when we are alive.
bits and pieces of life's nest,
bits of pieces in death's coffin.
because a mother always nurtures
and a father always claims.