When tragedy strikes we become sleuths. We reconstruct events to establish the belief that it should have been us, it could have been us, it was our fault or we caused their death somehow. The days pass into weeks, the weeks years until the memory fades and details dim.
Meuse I
Pron.: /ˈmjuz/
a depression leftin the grass, a shallowbowl, or profound,
a gap in the hedgethe hog trespassed, in otherwords, not the animal
but the space...
My Milk Glass Mother
You were my thunderstorm mother.
You were my abalone mother.
You were my milk glass mother.
You reveled in flaws. You turned an opaque...