if there is truly more to my view scape then I have missed it and my legs will not carry me back to pain-filled paintings of reddened lungs heaving and clawing for breath when in fact it is only psychological asphyxiation
and I look at her tear-streaked face
and she looks at my blood-stained one
and she says, 'there is more'
and I say, 'what do you mean?'
but she is too far gone
with her sleepy brown eyes
and the fingers that twitch with impatience
and I wonder
does she mean that there is more to this life
or more to the fact of dying
or more to the words that we place with this world
like a newborn child
that we hand over
and beg over-muscled hands not to break,
not to shatter the glass of our defensive phrases
and leave us powerless
and I think that maybe I understand
and maybe there is just
and ending that would explain the beginning
and maybe I just missed it.