The peeling away of skin is but an invitation to shapeshift into something yet unknown. Death has never been this tangible. The spiritual realm has reached deep into the physical this time around. It ripped away life before my very eyes and no sense is to be made of what happened here. Yet.
I am empty. A hollow bone. A vessel for creation. Where I am going doesn't matter, all that is real right now are the signals my soul sends through my skin, my eyes, my fingers, my heart.
It hurts still, and my shape is yet undefined. Or at least unknown to me at my current perspective. Here, grief is most faithful to itself, a conviction that is sacred in itself.
I am not who I was anymore and I am growing into something I cannot foresee. 'Patience my dear', I hear. A decay that has yet to run its full course. It all returns to dust right now, loss is the allegiant dancepartner that shows me there is nothing I need to have, only a need to be.
Like a seed deep within the dark soil, I cannot help but wait untill I burst into bloom yet again.