Small cloistered room. Pristine. Scent of antiseptic, flower perfume, lemon spice, body oil, rot. Like a tiny barred altar. Whiteness, pale light from the window, pallid as his cheek against pressed sheets. He smiles.

  I hold his hand, grip tightly. Moaning, tears. "Don't leave me, please don't leave me, not yet..."

  Face crinkles, bunches up weakly, last attempt as Moonman-Messanger. Blue of his eyes, stolen from the grey skies. He closes his skies for renovations, final wind. Goodbye.

  I rock, cry, press wet eyelids against drooped skin.

  Awake moments later with face moist against the pillow, heart throbbing in the throat.

  It will happen someday, with or without me, and more pillows than mine will be broken.

-Magienoire Torrent, '97