she would love as if it were as common as breathing- so far and so deep, too far and too deeply-
the leaves falling with winters falling snow stole her with the last gusts of novembers brisk winds
she was singing so loudly in a world that did not even deserve to hear the slightest humming
she died of a smile, of a smirk
of far too often, far too profoundly
of yet again, a world which deserved nothing;
she as the woman will give, gave everything,
she died of dancing to the wrong music.
she died of the spaces between awake and asleep catching up to her,
of all of the good and bad moments,
of peace and labor,
not of any other soul, not of her own
but of the soul of a planet which will now turn as she gazes upon it,
though it is entirely unworthy of her gaze.
there are still words to be said and
last breaths unknown.
there are moments and days that will overtime force to fade into the closed shut box that is dusty and is only labeled
but i will fight it, i will fight it so hard.
the woman who gave life to me cannot rest for eternity without her name being spoken,
and she will not rest ever without her words being said yet again,
her smile being brought up in conversation
her entirety of self pushing its way from the back of all minds, my mind, into the front.
she will ask if i have eaten enough for dinner and i will say
yes mom, of course, thank you-
and the smallest moments will matter the most;
the smallest moments will matter the most.