Existence is a series of deaths
It’s a long, drawn out process of throwing, catching, holding for a brief moment, and releasing back into to immeasurable universe
Even sleep is a form of dying
The day is alive, but eventually you lay your head to rest.
Practicing death
Each relationship breathes the shape and color of what is alive now
But then you return to yourself, and that dynamic dance between two souls has been killed off
Trees grieve the season that bloomed before
Sticky summer heat, she mourns snow blanketing three inches high on each branch
She cries leaves piling on the cool ground, she misses her shield from the sun.
the snake sheds its dying skin, the butterfly dies the child in them just to die all over again.
We kill old versions of ourselves for the sake of growth.
Existence begs so much to be alive that its willing to die multiple times.
