Here lies a woman.* That is all the granite stone reads. These are its only words. The only thing left to illustrate the being that was. What kind of woman? Mother? Lover? Great orator, writer, singer, dancer? Maybe all of these. What potential is there in a woman? Was it fulfilled? Wasted? Nourished and encouraged to grow? Was the wisdom of a woman passed down? Has the future benefited from a woman? Here lies a woman. What a sad inscription. What a hopeful and inspiring inscription. Here lies a woman. That is all there is now. Only a body beneath the earth. Only a woman. Nothing more. Nothing less.

I am a woman.
I am a woman who is lost. in a sea. of bodies.
Muscles and flesh stretch over my mind,
obscuring what I thought I knew,
what I thought I was.
I am only the sum of my parts.
I am not separate from any section of viscera.
I am eyes.
I am lungs.
I am heart.

I like to open my eyes to the crushing darkness.
Hot drops caress my skin.
Never hot enough it seems.
I want my flesh to sear,
My bones to burn.
All other sensations will drown in the steamy abyss.
I am body alone.
I am touch alone.
I am cut off from the world and it is liberating
and heavy.

I love your wallet on my desk,
your shoes on my floor.
Little reminders that you're real,
You actually exist,
You aren't just a dream.
I love your Levi's
that you leave behind when you go.
Each piece like a little love note,
Telling me not to worry.
"I'll be back soon," they say.

Lying in bed without you
My hands are cold
I don't like the way they feel on my skin.
My body lacks the fire that you inspire.
I have become frigid.
Body absent of longing.
Mind apathetic.

My mind is active.
It's not okay.
But I sense moments of expansion.
Mostly, I am comatose.
But sometimes, more frequently, it seems,
I feel a brief intensity.
Like sunshine though tree leaves,
Like closing my eyes and looking directly at the sun.
Fleeting moments of peace.
Fleeting moments of hope that I'm not dead inside.
Maybe the cold is stimulating.
Or maybe it's the solitude.
Or maybe I've hit that low point that brings wicked clarity.

What was that in your eyes?
I must be going blind,
For I could not have seen
What I thought I had.
A memory.
Those hands on my thighs.
It must be over now.
That bud that never blossumed
Is now someone else's flower.