At Work

Fresh spring, walking the paths of ghosts and cutting the limbs of spirits. I carry the weight of all who lived here, upon my shoulders.

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She calls to me from below. A secret known only by quiet invitation. To peer into tragedy as if witnessing a still born in winter - is this green even real?

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I’ve become a journalist in a woman’s mind. Note-taking, recording, moving through memories that never end, that hold a void so large no company could fill it.

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A pit she is, and she revels in it. Pride encasing the incurable loneliness. She’d carry me into her cave and willingly, I’d die at her hands.