Death is that line between the grass and the gravel,
Driving with the wind blowing through all the windows,
Turn the handle to put them up and keep the dust out,
What would I do?
Such morbid thoughts.
I exit the car upside down,
Find her lying on the ground,
Find her breathing no more.
What would I do?
Such a thin line,
If he would have been looking,
If he would have kept control.
A heaving, aching moan
From my own mouth,
A cry that
I have never made
Before,
I cough from the dust,
Blood on the grass,
My ears are ringing.
A mundane thought enters my head unannounced:
Why do ears ring?
She is dead!
Does it have to do with the eardrum?
I don’t care.
I don’t care.
I don’t care.
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