Her heart is a sinking sun,

pooling patches of dried blood

on a canvas thickening

with yesterday’s paint. Tucked in

rich velvet and laid to rest

(open to public viewing)

she mourns its passing, pressing

treasured lines of scrawled script to

lips of stone, epitaph carved in

lieu of flowers. Rays of light,

the glory days of holding

and being held, protrude from

memories slashed through the frayed

places where sky meets casket’s

edge. The sun will rise again

but not today, not until

a thousand tomorrows have

burned to ashes, cremation’s

signature on cloud-sealed urn.