Words buckle under the weight of this matter
Each letter since stretched to dissociation
From the next broken thought left circling after
The scent of a ghost memory next to me
Your stubborn soul in a broken bag of bones
Slipping from my grip at a deafening pace
Praying while I stumble alongside of you
For fertile soil bearing peace and aged grace
m e a n d e r s 
I think we’re at our best, in a certain way, at the hardest of times, closest to God and the person we love, but I’d guess we’d choose something less than best if the horror of it all could go away, if we could wake up and find that it was all just a nightmare.