At the way your Persian snuggled in the crook of your arm. When I'm gone, my dear, you won't be struggling to make ends meet. You'll have enough, you'll have the blessing of enough that Lawrence spoke so often of. But I didn't have enough. I never would.
Dollar signs don t void that ache.
I pull out your down silk quilt and poke its feathers in aging s holes. That morphine drip comes back to me so often in my tremulous dreams. The ocean rocked you to sleep. Your face spread against the pillows like gray ash behind a summer barbecue.