You will hang up the phone,
not believing a word
of condolences you just muttered.
You will freshen up, go to work,
return worn enough,
then repeat for days.
Life will carry on this side of the sea.
You will have lived for weeks,
not noticing a column of ants,
pressing on your cherished plant.
Standing crestfallen,
when it will be too late,
you will try everything futile.
You will observe
only, and imagine millions
of little teeth gnawing on their last
breath, a black mass suffocating
those that you love.
Your will have known silence,
your phone will no longer fill
your pocket with soft hum
from his messages. You will adapt
to the sound of air, traversing
through hollows of your chest,
interrupted at times by sudden
choke, huff – and then vision
blurred, puff – tears on your face soak.
On that day, your limbs will be loose
on the bed, eyes dry
from glares of ceiling light.
You will picture him in slumber
on the other side of deep
water. You will picture flames
and him rolling into ashes.
But first you will remain
still and spend hours tracing
fallen dust.
Stranger Under My Skin 