Monday, November 10, 2014


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 

Time is tacky without you.

You promised to visit.
I'm waiting, warding off abandonment.

This is thinning. 

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