They tore down the mountains and crushed them into pathways where souls wander and flash and shine their eyes at me on my way home. The pieces of plastic inside my skull bring me the sound of the bluest voice in the world. Yours. A voice that cuts through sirens and breaks more than glass.
I reach out for your bared belly and when I touch it you say, “Your hand is so cold.”
I say, “Death will do that to you.”
You laugh. And such a laugh. I miss that sound more than anything.