. CROWHAZE .

these  items  represent  wounds     kept  open  ,   those  memories   -   the  salt  ,   poured  deep  in  copious  amounts  .    it’s  unrelenting   &   always  had  been .    day  to  night  ,   week  to  month  ,   year  to  year  .  she’s   consumed  by  grief   &   loss  ;   cursed !    inky  lashes  dance  to  a  close  ,   allowing  this  time  to  live  in  memory  ,   wishing  to  be  engulfed  .   but  oh , how  easily  interrupted .   she  catches  it  only  just   -   in  the  breeze   -   a  voice  never  forgotten  ,   though  long  missed  .   it  ensues  a  curdling  sensation  within  her  stomach  ,   leaving  her palette  drenched  as  palm  moves   &   fingers  curl  around  a  nearby  stone  .   she  had  to  be  mistaken  ,   only  furthering  the  shards  of  longing  stabbed  to  the  crook  of  her  ribs .   mistaken  &   hopeful , even  .   her  frame  straightened  in  immediate  response ,   now  adrenaline  fueled .   eyes  shoot  open ,   her  sight  fighting  through  the  darkness  .   at  the  tip  of  her  tongue  lies  an  unsung  breath ,   drawn  out  in  waiting   &   matches  tone  of  her  younger  self  ,  all  those  years  before  .        ❛   …  eric ?    ❜

                  The initial shock had come to at first sight, there was a sadness in his eyes – not for her but for himself. She, superficially speaking, seemed to be doing well. She was alive, alive & beautiful. Almost unrecognizable from the little girl he used to know. The little girl he used to try & teach to play guitar. The little girl he’d find Shelly with, running around their apartment & making a mess of poor Gabriel. Yet, despite the obvious changes, there was something– a glimmer in her eyes, the timbre in her voice. That child-like spark that called to the Sarah Monster he once knew. But, just how long had he been gone? Years, maybe decades. A sudden hollowing sensation made the dead man realize his ill-fitting appearance. He wasn’t supposed to be here. And disregarding his posthumous state, his stomach began to turn – making him swallow ( discretely ) & finding himself inadequate in words. Shocking, to the innate poet in him. Melancholic hazels trailed back to her hand, her fingers, her thumb. Without a warning, a sorrowful smile curved his lips. Softened features became animated again. “— you still wear it.”