The Death of a Writer

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I find you with stories in your arms.

The cadence of your breathing not so lyrical, more like rasping wind.

Your lips move.

I know you are writing in your head.

Your characters reel in order and disorder bent tight to your side like me.

But no matter how far we slip from your grasp, there will be no separation.

Your voice in endless chapters still
does not assume an ending.

I blow out the light on this blue afternoon, tuck the covers across your graying chest.

Then I steal your treasure—
the vast, soaring cathedral of existence you’ve penned, my thumping heart smeared on every page.

Amidst the smell of well-meant flowers,
I finish you.


To be alive is to become visible, to leave gifts for others. Thank you always for reading. xo

Copyright © Kelly Huntson and [2015-2019].