Golden leaves

spill forth from her heart.

Lush, brittle stars

drift on air unseen.

Falling

drifting

changing.

Life changing.

Changing lives.

Changing her life,

her body.

Skin now bathed in indigo.

Tears,

now cerulean,

trace inky patterns

down her face

as she cradles

the air in front of her.

Cradling emptiness.

Emptiness.

Empty nest.

Those arms

yearning for memories,

grasping for ghosts,

holding an ethereal

nothingness.

Remembering when her children

were so small

they fit into those arms

effortlessly.

Cradling that soft new skull

in her palm.

Mesmerized by the

soft pulse pulse pulse

beneath that oh so thin layer of skin.

Those days.

Those days

when she so often longed for

peace

and

quiet.

Peaceandquiet.

As if it was one word.

Longed for time alone.

Longed for space to think.

To just be.

Now she has it.

So much time.

So much space.

And she doesn’t know what to think.

She doesn’t know who to be.

She doesn’t know how to be.

She doesn’t yet know

how to be

a woman with

empty arms.

 

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Editor: Travis May

Photo: Travis Simon via Flickr