It's a beautiful thing he's stitching.
She is everywhere in it. Her green
eyes. Graying hair. Small, heart-
shaped nose. It's a thing he's
building. Like a garden. The pots
of new plants set among
the plants established. Just to see.
To compare one green against
another. Music or cacophony.
Silence or static. Its an
arrangement. A way of putting
things. One part of a story.
Then another. Not necessarily
in order: beginning, middle,
end. Maybe a detail instead.
How his hand passes lightly
over her. How she smiles
without actually smiling.
How he comes home from
work to find her sleeping in
a chair. Worries that one day
he might find her still.
Cold. He must love her
madly. It must drive him
crazy to think such things.
It's a story he's building.
Everywhere, she inhabits it, threatens,
in death, to pull it to pieces,
back into tattered fragments,
this little semblance of a whole.
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