Inspired by Annie and Finnick, and the heart-wrenching drawing that I used as my cover (I don't know who drew it... but thank you!). Thought there was nothing to lose in sharing. Not very many words, so I just added it onto a one-shot. Thank you for reading! :)
And when I saw him
I couldn't look away.
Coughing and stumbling
his shirt blossomed with blood
he beat at the walls of heaven.
His arms were too full
and his moments dropped wet as though tears.
I was a child,
picking them up after him like wildflowers.
A green dress
her hair in water
the fevered beatings of two scared hearts.
so much of her
in his hands.
It is no wonder, really
that she broke apart.
And when he
lay all of his moments at my feet
I had no choice but to take them.
Take them and the promises in the broken glass of his eyes
let myself cry
so my voice would break.
the only things he knew how to love.
And he was so torn
had ripped himself to use the pieces to make her stronger
his mouth was bloody but I heard his message to her:
I waited darling, until I couldn't wait any longer.
I am sorry
I could not watch
when they carried him away.
But it is grey comfort to say
that I have them now, those moments.
I have kept them
nestled them in my palms
doves with soft broken wings.
I promised to not let them fall
but clasp as I might
my fight to keep them is slipping
and I think I'm letting go.
For I have tried to slip them beneath my tongue
but they dribble out in something like a weep
through the cracks of my teeth.
I have grasped them between my toes
but they are so heavy, sometimes they drip and slip away.
My fingers are much too cold for them
my veins are much too warm.
Perhaps they would fit over my eyes
for they, too, are salty.
But my eyelashes are often so bloody
it makes them sick.
You could say
to be blinded by grief
is better than never having seen at all.
But I have felt this to be a lie
and to drop them to the ocean
would be a sweetbitter goodbye.
I am strong
you must understand. Truly, I am.
Few things cannot be made to stop trembling
with the warm clasp of a hand.
But to be shook by a sorrow not your own
is a bending grief
I can no longer comprehend.
I cannot hold on.