Word Count: 129
In the cold gray of dawn the bare trees reach up to scratch the sky with their fingers, leaving holes for ghosts to float through. My mother, my father, my brother, my friends; then my lovers all looking for Heaven.
Heaven exists in my memory. Heaven was dinners of prime rib and lobster. Heaven was holidays warmed by the bodies of everyone laughing and sharing. Heaven was nights swirled in satin sheets on my bed.
Hell is there too. Loud streams of epithets sprung out of anger and hurt. Loud as the doors banging shut and the silence that hangs in the head.
Go back, I tell them, go back. Leave me in the still quiet of a dismal gray morning. There’s no Heaven left here anymore, only Hell.
marvelous prose poem.