poetry
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She said it softly, like a secret already too late to keep: Memento Mori, and the room seemed to dim around us, as if the walls themselves had heard it before Her fingers closed around mine, not warm, not cold, just certain, like the grip of something inevitable. Memento vivre: She added, almost smiling, and… Read more
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dust collects on the edges of memories living room walls grayed with outlines of what was,photographs hang in webbed silence each face frozen in a laugh that no longer resounds Their love as a vase cracked, yet still holding water,the stems of our shared days with petals dry, dead on the floor, they dropped only… Read more
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How do you write, why do you write; I was asked, and so with the weight of the room upon me and in a fragile breath I replied: Affective empathy,partial hyper empathy,I taste the salt of sorrow along with the sweet ache of absence,each word a single cord, becoming either a noose or a safety… Read more
The Quill of Samantha Grace Newcastle 