alive people talk of people
now dead
in chat messages, sans smileys.

one truncated message
talks of the end
of one life, in one line.

five hours later in time
one tear is held back
perhaps conscious of the lack
of a context

the place
the moment
the sight.

far away from the crackling pyre
distance dries that lone tear.
it will violently gush out
perhaps years later
on a dry unassuming summer late afternoon
without warning,
like death that struck today

who knows, who will kill, that day.

an old letter
that wasn’t to be discovered

an old photo
that wasn’t to be ever seen

a hasty scribble
that didn’t otherwise mean anything