any love close to death is sketched in black bold strokes of raw unfinished details and framed in a soft white space of silence
something so unusual
you can’t take your eyes
off its emanating honesty
something so giving
it’s willing to hand you the pencils
to see if you’d like to
throw some color onto it
I don’t think
the love at death
wants to fold you up
and take you with it
I think it wants
to leave you
holding the picture
with both hands