They say she is dying. We listen with wrenched hands, tightening lips. The clock on the wall ticks, clicks its way into our worn brains, as if we don’t already feel its dwindling voice in our own heartbeats. Staccato syllables of medical babble fill the room, refuse to attach themselves to anything of meaning. We know she’s about to be heaven-bound and broken body-free, but we are left here wanting, waiting. Aching.
The moon flares a bright hole
in a world of sky.
Prompted by thotpurge’s haibun monday at dVerse.