The Sun On My Back

I know her life as intimately as the back of my hand.
Buried and long forgotten she had hopes untold.
Her life was so small with large bills and no rewards,
Awaking each morning to sleepwalk through her life,
never feeling but pretending to feel.
She ignored and made excuses for many terrible things,
never admitting, but pretending all was well.
Her life was laid out before her, unrelenting like a clock,
an inescapable stone prison for the events of her life.
She couldn’t have known it was her last night to bed.
I woke up that next morning alone in her room,
suffocating in the reality of her life.
Bright and hot and sharp and loud,
unknown emotions exploded onto our day.
Our day became my own, she died and I was born.
I used her hands and her feet,
Never hesitating, knowing things were not okay
I took her world, and breathed new life into dead hope.
The world was bright and crisp, suddenly aware, awake.
Walking away with the sun on my back,
never looking over my shoulder to see the ghost of her.