Little Bird

At 8:17 in the morning on a Tuesday, you went limp in my arms, my heart slamming in my chest, my hands shaking, and all I could smell was earth. I knew you were gone, and yet still—I asked him to check one more time. It didn’t matter that I felt your heart stop, or that I listened to the air leave your lungs. I’ve never screamed like that before. I’ve never felt the need to do it more than once, and still need to again, and have nothing left in my lungs to give—despite trying anyway. At once, a great schism cracked open and bled with no way for me to stop it. I always thought I loved solitude…in reality, I just preferred to be with you. Just you. My home is gone—and I’m left bleeding on the altar—alone. You were everything, and I love you so much.