I look into your coffin
The silk lined closet of your bones
You look different
Your hand cold as winter
I watch for your breath
I hope for a gentle rise of your chest
For a reversal of this stinging fate
For a chance to touch you alive again
But you are dead
The earth knows it
And waits for you
Where can I put all the things you will now miss?
[Have you, too, ever experienced the optical illusion of thinking, for just a moment, that you saw the loved breathe again? It is all so unnatural, the absolutely motionless body, the cold touch. How can it be?]
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