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Who wept in the night, that break in breath crawling to the next in-drawn and shaking the bed, the room, the world before it can be released?
Who beat fists bloody against stone, skull battered and bruised, shards of cruel edged light stabbing?
Did she dance, out along the parapet, calling to the moon, to the stars, to the gods of other worlds?
Did she fall one evening, not in body but in soul, in mind, in hope and the desire to see another day?
Do they mourn that which lives still, heart pumping, chest rising and falling? Do they see the decomposition of all she was through the white that films her eyes?
Can you return life to a corpse if the corpse pretends to live?
Let her go down to the woods, up to the crags, into the bosom of ocean’s embrace. Let her fly among the stars and converse with the spirits and twist gently with the kelp by a shore’s long arms.
She lost her way and calls out but those she sees aren’t there. They are ghosts or will o’wisps, fabrications of a mind unsettled, their words dancing black against white in the flickering darkness in the depths of the night.
She weeps for them to find her.
