Lenient Sundays

Remembering dead volcanoes. The rain on the glass not deciding which image was real. She threw all her photographs away. To begin again. With nothing.

It's the best way to start. The only way to end.

Seldom as we are. Perfect theorum in the calculations of Pythagarus. The geometry of touch yielding to the formula of division.

Even those small clouds can make it rain. Even little claws are able to draw blood.

Dead volcanoes erupting with pieces of skin. Empty becomes her.

Still the kitten is not to blame. For the scrathes on his face.

And dying is not a disappointment.