I think it must have been beautiful when you died laid up in such perfect solitude counting sheep until the cows came home, until the daylight broke, until the sheep were gone. I imagine there was nothing less than a flood of color clouding the perimeter of your face like a Byzantine idol and rushing right from the center- a sight to remember and be jealous of in theory. So gorgeous- everything painted in rose hues and dusty blues like a Martha Stewart catalog like an Easter day centerpiece like a cosmetic compact like you just want to cry it’s so gorgeous but you pull yourself together like the professional you are and it’s so impressive- it always impressed me. You’d make a memory and give it away and make it mine somehow- my memory and I’d hold onto it like the heartbreaking, fictional feeling it was and you would cry and I would cry about it too and even through your tears and twisted lips and crowded teeth I could see the beauty- I could see nothing else.
in parentheses 