Poem by Natalie Holmes
It doesn’t really have to end
But it feels like the right time.
A minute ago, I was
Conducting the air
To a melancholy group of notes
In my brimming brain.
Now the atmosphere hangs dead before me,
A blue haze obstructing my vision.
It clumps in imperfect droplets
And rolls down my rough dry skin,
Landing on my chest, and catching in the creases of my nose.
I cry and I cry because it’s the end.
I cry until I feel numb
And have forgotten what I was crying for.
The haze occurs so frequently it is a friend to me.
Tears are my companions.
I face the end clutched in their embrace,
wishing for the notes that have leaked from my mind.
They were perfection.