We Sold Funeral Flowers - Chapter 1 :: a new micro novel by John Oliver Westbrook

And you were sitting on the sill
I was standing behind the shadow
when you turned a last time, to look
but you didn't see me.
And I didn't call out.

But you smiled anyway
before you turned again toward the city
closed your eyes upward, and hands raised.

And disappeared, over the edge
like a bird.

I was standing behind the shadow,
in the dusk approaching.

My tongue sliced.
My hands tied.
My anguish fleeting.
My eyes glimmering
like a demon, disappearing.

She was strangely aware of the way her eyes burned from cold dark air, the surprise of how falling felt...heavy and dense. Not at all like she imagined, not sailing or floating.

Just dirty and real.

Messy plummeting.

Her last thought was regret; that she was leaving a grisly scene for some poor sad soul to clean up. Someone who probably had a limited perspective on what they felt was possible for them...then this.

"Tonight, the silver salty glow of taking my own life is, appealing. It's one fucking thing after another. I get no break in the battle, no gasp for air, no time to bury my dead; Everything I read and research, tells me how much I've lost and how fucked I am. Maybe I'm too soft. Or maybe too alone. I don't really know, anymore. Just, it's clear, I'm always running out, always trying to fucking survive on the thin string I'm balancing on. - May 25, 2016"

I read her journal entry like a memory.

Then set the well worn decomposition book down, my pen holding my place. The cover grows softer with every handling, its color fading dirty and the spine peeling back from hours spent on sunny tables at the cafe. She loved that place, every day. I pour a glass of Franzia Cabernet, stare at the dark brown wall. Without taking a sip. Without a sound in the house. This is where and how, I weep and honor her.

© John Oliver Westbrook
(Not for reproduction ~ but feel free to share this or my Instagram if you like my art! IG: abarefootpoet)