Haunted Underneath the Song
I. She wrote “death” with a permanent marker on my napkin and left the table. II. Whoa, what happened? Do you want the long version or the short one? The long one. I tried to save my life but I failed. What’s the short one? It’s burnt. III. The first time she held my hands, we were in the middle of aisle seven, looking for the right sized bandages. But it was too late, the blood, dried too quickly. IV. It has only been four days, but I can’t recall the sound of her voice or the last time we laughed together. Her purple afghan lays in the corner, cold and neatly folded.
