I sit, alone, in the snow.
The wet seeps into my jeans, my skin, my bones.
It falls down my cheeks and collects in my upturned hands.
I can still taste the ash on my tongue. There's no way to know, just how much of it is her.
The char between my teeth could be my mother's smile. Her fingernails, her hair, her eyes.
I am wet, and I am lost.
I know I should brush my teeth and scrape the carnage of my home out from underneath my nails, but I can't bring myself to do it.
Because then, all of her will be gone. And I will have nothing but this ache in my arms. I can still feel her in them. Clutching me tight.
God, why couldn't she have just held on a little tighter?