Literature
ICU
I.
High pitched beeps.
Low tuned ticks.
I group as
Short triplets.
As we pace.
As we breathe.
Clearing throats
And grieving.
It's colder
Here than there.
Outside where
Streetlights shine.
To her they
Bow for now
While she's still...
Strangling this world.
The sound of the flatline rips the tension,
Tortures the hope, kills the accepted convention.
II.
Drive me home.
As my forehead leans against the glass;
My eyes quietly roam.
The darkness breeds revolting shadows.
I watch them;
They make me feel hollow.
Grinning at me, they grow.
I see her face refracted, maimed, cracked;
My voice screams.
Without me.
I, absent,