I have been,
for at least a minute,
staring at a face
freezing into silver,
turning into metal,
but never gold.
Death had a dream
to take what matters
the most to me,
while I remain here
to be haunted
on an echo.
It repeats
what it could say
before its final second
was depleted
into nothingness.
But is it nothing?
I’m here,
wielding another’s hand,
hold onto warmth
I might be imagining
is theirs
if it isn’t mine.
Am I warm?
Someone’s found peace,
while I’m bracing
for a violent storm,
with its flickers
of lightning
on a blank trail.
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