Wedding dress threads sewn carpet books in childrens’ shoe boxes stacked where now 83% of your practicing dissassociating is landfill photography.
Is there no drug to erase the euphoria of a 5th grade swingset where in the wake of death, you swung high and relearned every pinhole camera moment you felt small kisses on sudden cuts.
A tone of sorrow drones like a refrigerator fan that never remembers that dreamed voices are dreamed voices, numb heartache on a full moon to the next moon, grief is a cycle, hon.
Crack open the carcass of your childhood home and find the object you were trying to forget. That’s the price of a vacation from pity.
Please and thank you, we are so sorry for your bless you loss, merry xmas. They were so young.