thinning

I made the bed with your sheets.

I'm trying desperately to keep your memory alive.

The more time passes, the thinner you feel.

I'm bombarded with useless details.

Memories slide aside

to fleeting likes and comments and conversations;

faceless, voiceless and unreal.

I miss your grilled cheese on a paper plate,

and the way your belly could burp.

Mother, I admit 

I write songs you will never hear

but pray you are listening

and pour wine before bed.

Come press your hand against my forehead,

I'm feverish.
My eyes are sweating, my skin smells like grief.

The dogs behave,

the dead decompose

the dishes dry

diets dive

days date days date days date 

daze.

Time is tacky without you.

You promised to visit.

I'm waiting, warding off abandonment.

This is thinning.