We Will Shimmer

There is a way which seemeth right unto man, but the end thereof are the ways of death

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I should know by now that death is doorways, one lung breathing beside the other, a thing of closeness and not massive loss, the crushing alone. But it still rattles my ribcage and sends me to my feet. It stings, blazes a little too brightly when I look on it a little too long, allow myself time to feel the barbell of absence. She should still be here, keeping the house company. He should still be there, reading books with her and riddling through board games on the old card table, last name etched into the bottom in no-nonsense sharpie, all caps—

I MISS YOU. Just saying the words to myself, in the solitary of my own talkative mind, pierces. Aches. Everything seems to ache when I linger on the truth. Your body will never fold around mine again in a simple embrace. Your words will never sift through my head like sweet background music. Your warm hand will not find mine. I ache with feeling. With the weight of it all. And yes, he might be in a better place and she may be with her dearly departed, but that is not with me, is not fresh lemonade in the patch of garden in the back or car trips across the painted sand and stone of desert. Why must I shoulder the weight of your body when your spirit mingles with the seraphs and light of the cosmos?

Stolen novel; please report.

The ache of life

is found in the shimmer

and shine of the galaxies,

Dear one. I am incapable

of cutting the thread, the string,

the iron rope of our

we, our us. In time,

you will shimmer with me.