So many moments, stolen by the sharp sting of the real.
Death, where is your sting after all?
The sting is when the muscles of my arms remember what it felt like to hold her.
The sting is when I dream of holding her and kissing her cheeks, only to wake up to realize she is not here.
The sting is everywhere, and it is just as hot and sharp every time.
I am ready; ready for the sting to be soothed and the moments to be sweetly savored. For joys to be embraced, never stolen.
Until that day my hope holds on, though by a string.
Please leave me a comment; it lets me know you're listening!
Coming soon... Losing Control: The battle I am facing