Homophones

Morning, mourning.

I did not hear how you reflected the rising sun until I was there and saw.

Morning, mourning because we have another day, another breath

And he does not.

My whole has a hole.

Yet, I find myself feeling whole even when I can feel the hole, air breezing through, scabs forming where an open wound was just before.

/ Here we are in the dessert, finding a way to love the lac as the raze lays us bare. The end of the chapter. The beginning of another.

Morning, mourning.

We are the sole soul here. Mind not the others, nodding brusquely as they look right past you. No one is here to hear the wail of the wale that pains us. Unseen. Unrecognized.

We take steps. We move through. And at times, I stare at the stairs not taken. The path not followed. I cannot follow you there. But I stand, slowly kneading my needing, forming something new. Something some part of me knew was coming.

This pane of pain will pass. The days will continue. We are growing. I will be there soon.

But not today.

Morning, mourning.