Between wavering breaths, frantic with need, with desperation a warrior of three generations argues still, with the same conviction he held one prior. The only difference now is he uses fewer hand gestures. Today, his mamma-mia's come from a different place, his oh-Dio's not for God.
I write of sorrows with tears not justified by stone or ash. I tell of life and love that I have neither lived nor felt, while I grasp at limbs I've yet to lose. Already, I can feel the weight of loss, the taste of sorrow and funeral home; a phantom limb scratching at a phantom limb.
Off-guard is a good feeling. It's knowing that makes it hard.
Off-guard is a good feeling. It's knowing that makes it hard.
