her words awakened
physical pain
in him

the mere sound of them
was like
claws scratching against
his brain

When she's old enough,
a mother can
hurt her son
like she never could in
her youth

Listening to her
now,
he felt like crying

And she wasn't even
cursing him
She just looked around
and then finally set
her eyes on him
and repeated the
same question
"When is he
coming home?"

"But mother, I am home,"
he cried. "It's me!"

But in reply
she would only make a
confused face
and start looking around
again
and ask the same
question again

She was
only 62
and aside from her
mind
everything was healthy
about her

which only meant that
they'll both be
stuck in
this hell
for longer

Years that will
feel like decades

by the time she was done rolling that cigarette it looked like a broken, gnarly twig regardless, she put it between her lips, lit a piece of nacho on fire and used that to light the cigarette and then just watched the nacho burn until the flames reached her fingers “Do you remember when dreams used to have colors?” she asked “Color?” he said, and thought about it. “Yeah, it was back in the days when I was a kid and movies were black and white.” She watched him through a veil of smoke that she thickened by blowing some more. “Wow, you’re, like, old as fuck then.” “Old enough to know there were better times, dear. Way better times. When dreams had color and sound…” “Listen,” she said, “is this a rant on technology and how it fucks our minds an’ all that?” “What? Not at all. I mean…