Standing in those eggshell rooms,
hearing the worst type of news.
The complete loss or absence of hope,
the entire place smells like lingering antiseptic bar soap.
Tears slip, slide, and fall from my cheeks,
remember the years, the months, the weeks?
They can’t be right,
she wouldn’t give up the fight.
The car ride is long and silent,
home is dark and silent.
Some say quiet is violent,
my delusions tell me not to buy it.