Small Strings Big Parachutes

Dead things. I know about them. The spark of streetlight just before the sun rises. The dirt from the well right before the water rushes. The pea tormenting the tired princess as she laments her lack of princes.

Dead things. Loud songs playing softly. Children pretending to be asleep when the bedroom door opens.

Drawing the pictures chases away the words. Broken bottles struggle to hold onto a dwindling illusion of escape. Dead things shift under their dirt. Sleep comes in the rapid intervals between breathing and screaming. Dead things. No one hears them when they say they are alone.

Dead things. All their open cages prevent them from being saved.

Paper planes. No breezes. I'm a fortunate zombie. The hunger still hasn't arrived. It never will if I can hurry.

Chewing gum. No teeth. The dead things count themselves while the living aren't looking. Heaven comes in strobe lights. Hell comes in footprints.

Snow. Dead on the road. It's never cold enough to hear. To ask them why they fall when there's no place left to land.

Dead things. Remembering us. Old clothes that no longer fit.

We are leaving. Headlights staring in my window. Autopsies on movement. We are leaving. We just have nowhere to go.