HolyComa

     Mary had deep eyes that tranced lost souls into sibilant realms of slumber. Realms where I would dream of distant shores and crushing tides beneath the fading hues of day. Mary was two years older than me, but that didn’t stop us from falling in love. When she spoke I listened, swathed in the peace of her vocal heaven. It wasn’t the perfection in her that I was drawn to, but rather the darkness behind her façade of splendor. It was the sorrow in her touch; the pain from compiled years of trauma. It was the pain that created a void in her gaze. I stained a portrait of her innocence into my mind, despite what I had come to