clock is ticking
slowly inching
is she running out of it?
red, screaming
a patchwork splashed
across a once spotless wall
i close my eyes
and my nose is burning
fresh scent of charcoal
and the lingering smell
of burning sulfur
did she catch a whiff of that
just before she
was swallowed by darkness?

the table where she
always worked,
looks untouched, neat,
like she always kept it
no clutter, nothing out of place
save for a starched note
blotched where her tears
probably had fallen
all it said was "sorry"
she could have written
a gazillion words
and i still would have never
understood why
never will understand how

she was always the strong one

now i watch her bleeding
broken, the life in her fleeing
she is so cold
just like the barrell on her temple
so still. . .

can we wake up now?