Life Is Dead


You bless my every waking hour.
How?
That I do not know.
Nothing about you is extraordinary.
Impressive.
Complex.
But you do it for me.
My hand is running through your hair.
Can you feel the lukewarm fingertips linger on your skin?
Of course you can.
You're right here with me.
I'm watching you smile.
The way your eyes crinkle in the corners.
And as I go to run my hand along the back of your neck, reality hits.
You're not there.
I'm still staring at the flowers next to the engraving.
That hunk of rock never looked more alive.
But what I thought I saw of you wasn't that at all.
It was a vision.
An image.
A fantasy.
I mustn't keep forgetting.
Life is dead, like the rest of this dream.

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