widowed

Death Wears Indigo

Just breathe.

Let the crisp air enter your lungs. It may be biting, but it awakens you.

The autumn leaves in display, each one teetering through the air, a silent dance to the death as they fall to the ground.

The colors, the crunch. Fall tempts you to believe in the beauty of death. The flash of one’s life: vivid, messy, and swift before a graceful decent.

Yet, that is no longer the faith I cling to as I watch the children laughing, their joy in frolicking among the fallen. The death I know is not of a red, a yellow, or an orange. The journey to the ground is not silent.

Death does not heed to the notion ‘just breathe’. Death does slowly come and swiftly go, each breath giving way to a hollow gurgle. For the Death I know wears the color indigo.

Red Zinfandel

I drink, tonight a red zinfandel. It tastes tart and sweet but time will tell.

I use it to feel warmth at night. It’s soft upon the tongue, like when you would hold me close.

When I wake, it’s fine if I am ill.

Because the body should ache, as sickening as my heart breaking feels.

He is a Was

He is warm, his shoulders are broad, and his hands are calloused. His hair, a sandy, brownish-red. His laugh, a chuckle. His skin a patchwork of freckles. His soul hidden behind those dreamy, coast-blue eyes.

He is gone. He is a was. He was warm, his shoulders were broad, and his hands were calloused. His hair was a sandy, brownish-red… but now my loved is dead.