By Morgana Moore
Eight weeks into isolation,
and I’m contemplating the deflating
of my soul, and the numbness of
feeling too flat to breathe.
It’s not a big ask to stay at home,
This should be easy…
Here I am
Lying in bed until three pm,
surrounded by a halo of crumbs
unable to move or care
as I watch my responsibilities
mount higher and higher
I look at the small framed picture of you.
It’s getting harder to not think of you constantly
I’m glad you’re not here to see this.
You’d have little sympathy for those
finally sharing your plight,
completely oblivious to the wider world:
‘I’ve been indoors for days’
‘I haven’t spoken to a soul in weeks’
Finally, we’re experiencing what millions
Live with, day in, day out.
If you were still here,
How ironic it all is.
Instead of sharing your thoughts
you stay silent
with only my imagination
to fill your mouth with words.
We keep you in a small cardboard tube,
because we couldn’t decide on a fancy urn.
they never were your style anyway.
i’m grateful you’re gone.
Imagine being sick and fighting for so long,
Only to die of a virus.
Morgana Moore (she/her) is a UK based short fiction writer interested in speculative fiction, the oddities of the human experience, and personal identity. She is the editor-in-chief of @fatcatmagazine where she publishes flash fiction submissions online. You can find her writing featured in @_Re_side_ and forthcoming in @perhappened and @_IdleInk_. To keep up to date with her work, you can find her on twitter @morgana_moore.
This piece is a part of DISTANCED 2.0.