I’m without anguish, sorrow, regret. I’m without the shades of right and wrong and the gray smudge in between. Without the warm dawn of hope or the cold drop of fear. I’m without fingers to tangle with truths that no longer matter. Without hands that hold and caress and hurt. Without the substance left to snap. I’m without breath to fill lungs that no longer exist. Without tight skin to keep me contained. Without blood to drip. To spill or drain or splat or stain. To gift. I’m without … Him.
