She split the old hours open.
The moments they had
bled through,
like streams of red ants pouring
from the bark of a cherry tree.
She watched time warp around him
pulling his immaculate hair
like a famished boa,
its umber saddles sliding
on his loose skin.
Life was about to leave,
like light dancing away
from a melting sun.
How they used to shred
the organs of the night
into words and laughter.
The silenced metronome
still moved its swords.
The air stopped trembling
over his mouth.
She touched his hand.
It was coarse,
a woollen glove over his spirit.
She fell into
her daughter's arms.
How they used to build the day
from words and laughter.
The warmth of thirty summers
nested in her rainy soul.
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