Dia’s hand is silent.
The others can hear it too. They can hear you too.
You can only watch them as fragments of your own dying body.
You can feel the heat of her cold hand, the trace of her breath, the spark of something important taking hold.
The others can see it too, too, but they can’t see you.
You can feel the heat of her cold hand, the trace of her breath, the spark of something important taking hold.
The heat of a murder on a wall.
The pain is real.
You can feel it in the sweat on the floor.
You can see it in the scratches on the wall.
You can’t feel it in the room you survived.
You can see it in the numbness in the kitchen window.
You can see it in the scratches on the wall.
You can see it in everything:
the color blue,
the sweat lodge,
the TV,
the couch,
the sweater,
the scarf,
the bed,
the flower,
the blanket,
the piece of furniture you lost.
You can see it in everything:
the tiny trace on the wall,
the traces of someone coming to collect you from your body,
the breath.