Holes in my sweater
Through which the light strings through,
No longer resonating in the air but drowned in this strange cold
A cold I know, so strangely familiar.
And so, I don’t ask.
Instead-
Knowing it, I cannot help but wonder
I wonder whether this cold belongs to me alone
But then-
I look up and see his face-
Cracked and broken
A single tear stubbornly hung on his cheek
He falls to his knees
Not the person I knew but
But wizened and weak.
With his sounds drowned in my doll-eyed sleep
…
And then, as I’m told it happens
The colours slowly drain
The white turns grey
Black shapes form before me
My vision begins to fray
Covered in nature’s depressing home
This home.
My home.
I’m home.