Never Say Enough

I still talk about you in present tense.
As I get dressed, I prepare to get scolded because of my outfit.
I get ready to downplay your discontent
and assure you that no pervert will have his way with me,
but that moment never comes.

When I crash on the couch,
I think about how I need to fold up the blanket
and neatly pile the pillowcases before you make your way down the stairs. 
I listen for your footsteps,
but I never hear them.

When I walk towards my room I glance into yours,
hoping to find you sitting on the edge of your bed, peering through your blinds,
but you’re never there.

No more beckoning me for silly things, or for nothing at all. 
No more inspecting my haircut when I come home from the barbershop. 
No more poking my thighs and asking about my weight. 
No more.

You left me so quickly. 
There was no build-up,
only signs, and heaviness in my spirit. 
You left me so quickly.
I could never say enough goodbyes.

written September 9, 2016.

Today

Today is not the day. 
Today is not the day, 
but it is.

In a matter of hours I’ll be looking at her, 
laying in her brand new bed.
It’s not as big as the one in her room, 
but I was told that she looks like she’s sleeping.

I will try my best to keep it together
since she’ll be looking down,
but I can’t guarantee that my eyes or heart
will agree with my truest of intentions.

Today is not the day
that I view her for the last time. 
It can’t be another encounter where 
I talk but silence says something in return.

Today is not the day.
Today is not the day.
She isn’t really gone.

written September 4, 2016.

Sunday

Dad took your favorite white outfit to the dry cleaner’s today.
I’m laying in your bed, 
careful not to submerge myself beneath the covers, 
because that would mean you’re really gone.

I went to tuck myself in early this morning.
I was so cold,
but I curled myself up in a little ball instead. 
I felt crumbs on your sheets from your last meal here,
and decided there were other ways I could stay warm.

I bury my face in your pillow just so I can smell you again. 
I stare at the blessed oil that stands ever so earnestly atop the dresser beside your bed. 
It hasn’t even been two whole days since you left us, 
but it feels like a nightmare that’s lasted years.

I hear your voice, 
and recall all that you said before speaking was no longer an option; 
before your hands could no longer hold mine. 
I kissed you when it hadn’t been too long since the blood stopped flowing,
and I kissed you once more as your outside turned to ice.

I don’t eat much. 
I don’t say much. 
But my tears tell it all.
I’ll keep laying in your bed because I’m closest to you here.
I’ll see you on Sunday again.

written August 30, 2016.