This is the day when she died.

The morning of December rose as she fell,

And I literally smell the morning vapor.

Her breathing fainted just as the cold water went downhill.

The ground shook and I felt her crack.

 

That was when we had to lay her down,

Like a dress you just ironed.

A naked being, vulnerable and oppressed.

 

This is the day when I stood by the doorway.

I saw her looking deep into my eyes,

Like a dog before an owner,

Like an owner before a dog.

She was thinking.

Oh, how I wish I knew what she was thinking.

 

They came in, just as they were used to do,

Bathed her, clothed her, fed her.

What a lovely sight, seeing my mother and father in a new way,

A way of things that only I could understand.

Because I was robbed of it.

I directed the show she stole.

 

SUNDAY

 

That was the day when I got tired of it:

Being the one who begged to be begged,

The one who wrote to be written,

The one who loved to be loved.

 

She was precious and sweet.

A good ally.

I long for her presence, I long for her love.

She was the one who made me more… likable.

She was my guide, my path—my accessory.

 

That was the day when she woke up suddenly.

I felt her eyes open like an entity travelling by.

She was a silent movie.

She was staring at me.

And I saw it, like droplets on the window.

I saw it, but I did not touch it, running down her ribs and cheeks.

 

For all the things I can grab,

A towel, a tissue, a blanket to wipe the new river,

I grabbed a pillow.

Gently pushing in, gently, gently.

She was a rock in the river.

But now she is an abandoned statue.

Rusting for a year until I came back to it again,

But never discovered,

For it was gone.

 

They were devastated.

I was devastated of myself.

Two candles for your grave.

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