This,
even this, won't last. Bereavement is impatient with it's arrival. You wait on the first step to the library, dark shadows cast upon you from the passerby, you don't bother putting your hair behind your ears because you don't have the type of hair that would stay. You look up, you're waiting for a sign. A plane to fall from the sky, to wreck havoc, to cause mischief. Or maybe something more subtle, a bird. A bird that flies mysteriously low, too close to earth, too close to human kind. Perhaps something on the inside, like your lungs, too tired to hold air, too weak to expand. You leave the step, your legs are strong and they carry you far. Till you arrive at your mind, too small to trust God, too fickle to know that you are permanent. Trouble not your heart to despair. This, even this, is eternal. Temi.F
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