The snowflake in our early August days now
melt in the crushing daylight.
You can still find the shape of your face carved
across my overgrown shadow on the dust.
Another faceless stranger stands by,
Another nameless beggar line up behind me,
tossing out silver tragedies of dead sunflowers.
The shadows grow on our abandoned land;
Stains of decay and rust across its skin.
And when you leave, you never drop the last penny
on the wishing well; just the age-old drawing
of your dead sister, now seeming out of place.
There were days you never felt like a human being.
Dead limbs, fragile spine, bruised cheeks.
And now you wake up on the same barren land, now
surrounded with the corpses of those you
once wished were dead.
There's a siren in the silence stretched across the blues;
something less human, something buried beneath your bones.
But there's still a speck of humans dusted on
your wrinkled skin.
A streak of crimson, a smear of earth;
Yet there's a shadow dying within the
subtle ache of your rotten muscles,
slowly burning away in the blood-stained bleach.
The shape of your name, the silhouette of your ache
now sleep six feet under this abandoned land.
You wake up alive, without the remnant of your past.
Your innards lack the searing pain akin to bleach's bite.
You don't think of her anymore; you don't wish for death;
You don't clean the graveyards or float on the yellow water.
But you're still the human that once died at another's funeral.