It isn’t so much death I fear; living with pain is what I fear.

Cracking open with salt and tears and wet. Body bent, head bowing to the ground or on the ground, mind taking the back seat as snot and water and folding hands touch face and ground and knees pulled tight to chest. Swaying and shaking and at some point no movement. Words seize to exist. There is no sense to make in this space of siphoned senseless.

When the heart stops beating we die. The rhythm however does not seize to exist.

That sound: the sound of eternal rhythm lives in my blood and in the waters and rocks and fire light of stars.

I am made from the eternal and that part of me will never die.

Pain moves from the skin of me and mine to us and ours.

We hear each other’s breathing. We smell the fear and the release and the ecstasy of death. We learn to let go.

To taste the small deaths each day so we can breathe life and live full, deep, long inhales.

Exhale.             Inhale.

               Exhale, let go.                             Inhale, we embrace.

      Exhale.

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