From the moment
you appeared,
you tried to vanish,
molecules dividing
one at a time
into negative space.
A dozen years: one
limb per month
dissolved, until
nothing remained.
Your words faint,
then inaudible.
The last took weeks:
vibrated in air, then
disappeared like
the closing note
of someone else’s song.
About the Poet
Leah Mueller is an indie writer and spoken word performer from Tacoma, Washington. Her most recent books, “Misguided Behavior, Tales of Poor Life Choices” (Czykmate Press), “Death and Heartbreak” (Weasel Press), and “Cocktails at Denny’s” (Alien Buddha Press) were released in 2019. Leah’s work also appears in Blunderbuss, The Spectacle, Outlook Springs, Atticus Review, Your Impossible Voice, and elsewhere.
Vita Brevis Press. 
Oh this is brings out the sadness of losing someone slowly to time.Poignant
Thanks!
I could feel your pain through your words. Nicely done.
Glad you liked it!
I did 😎
I did 😎!
This is so sad! It made me thinking of my grandmother’s final months. She had endstage renal failure. Watching that slow decline killed something inside me.
I’m glad it had meaning to you. Thanks!
Excellent work. Admire the simplicity of a city-full of nuances new and fresh!
“From the moment
you appeared,
you tried to vanish”
I like this work, it reminds me of anorexia, of echo, of an angel pushing off attention, of smoke, of a thief…. very mysterious!