At the end what is left is one scoop of your bone.
The bone you share and eat.
At the end what is left is just you.
And the child I had with you that has no memory.
Looking at her grave, I have thought. ‘But you too have lived long enough’
Felt tired about having to be sad about the things that were not sad.
The only impulse I had was to go home and check. Play the game she has created.
The thing that she has created.
