seeking more, even through our fragile eyesight and trying to desperately look beyond facades placed as shutters on our eyelids

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 wordless

and I think that maybe I understand

and maybe there is just

more to

the sentence,

and ending that would explain the beginning

and maybe I just missed it.

The End

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