"I don't believe in that stuff." "Well I do." You were the perfect example of what I call, "angelic."
Your macular degeneration was the reaper of what could've been.
Nothing more than a lock of eyes and you had my attention,
Wait, attention? No, you had me. All of me.
The way you said my name.
Every part of my inner being wanted you.
My mind was programmed to crave your laugh.
You were my breakfast every morning for weeks, feeding me with energy.
The hairs on my neck would raise higher the closer to me you stood.
You told me that you will never die.
But to me,
You have.
Yet your pungent demeanor still lingers.
If I could travel time the way you do,
I would take it back.
And maybe you too.
I had only misplaced my keys and used you as a spare.
About the Creator
Nonnah Fain
My muse is mental health. I get a high off of writing. I write about everything, we are all walking stories.
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Reaching Out
I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munson3 days ago in Fiction
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