A mist rises from a nearby mound. It could be me, that mist, or simply the caretaker’s mower-dust. If the breeze blows just right, I’ll ghost your solid, entwine your hair. Promise me you won’t shampoo, but carry me along, tiny dust-particles of me.
Chila Woychik, On Being a Rat and Other Observations
death, metaphor, stream-of-consciousness, writing