A Gentle Haunting

A poem on the topic of ‘death’

You were waiting in the mirror this morning,

hunched in-between condensation.

Cold and blue,

the window shut tight.

Say it, then.

Let’s pick it all up from where we departed.

Notice the mark on my thigh

by the one who made me cry.

And I will tell you that I will walk away.

I mean it this time and you will not believe.

You are so much more, you will repeat.

With a list of new adjectives that I cannot predict.

You say nothing.

Only steam moves, intertwining us in the morning mist.

I don’t want to make this about me

for pain has rippled far, piercing into ones I do not know.

Memories intermixed of you,

or versions of you.

I can’t even do the thanksgiving

or picking nice flowers for your grave

because I am shackled by this hot grief that lingers.

It is a thickness that waters eyes