by E. Miller
cloaked by clouds and the green-grey sound of silence, your eyes flickered farewells that were beyond syllables.
time blurred clarity, but as i climb years like mountains, i remember that gaze - fearless though inevitable, unbroken though incomplete.
when you returned, you opposed memory. i tried to find yesterday buried with the bones of men you killed or did not save (what's the difference, anyway) but your innocent irises have decayed with sun.
reading engraved names, my tears mix with whispers. i recite the losses that they do not list:
your heart, your spirit, your love
and god, those eyes
e. miller is fifteen years old and just now learning to breathe. Her previous publications include Boston Literary Magazine.
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