Touched by your eyes, I quake. Whatever is good has ceased to flow. I throw the poison mirror away. The walls close towards center. Barely room to breathe.

Morning comes and again I resolve to survive the day, overcome this. We had planned to do that. Times have been better. My flesh hurts. I plunge back into sleep.

But the urge returns, jarring open my eyes. You aren't here. What am I creating here? Or am I just re-living-living the worst old outcomes? There was a truth here. Sinking, my thoughts become seeds seeking the comfort of dark. Memories are of no value. Where I am now I am safe, between everything, away and alone under a high cloud sky.

In this inner world of the closed flower there is a moment’s rest. The wind and tide erase all. I do not speak the language here. It is a comfort. I communicate through half tones, faint smiles. Outside the petals, rain and finally a clear sky and distant mountains asleep under their snow. Having held back too long, I do not cry. We bend or break. Now I lay me down to sleep. The rain drenched petals creak. I lower myself into the stormsmall boat, small wingsto try the sea.

Seattle, on my mother's death