this is the seventh year
i have laid awake
in the small hours of the morning,
seized with insomnia,
reliving the night you died,
knowing that a part of me
will always blame myself--
no matter what my therapist says.

this is the sixth year
i have known
i'll sleep eventually.

this is the fifth year
i can't find the right words anymore.

this is the fourth year
i was able to celebrate you
instead of merely mourn you.

this is the third year
i have had a teaching job
and had to call in sick
because i can't fall asleep until 4am
when all i can do is stare,
bleary-eyed, into the snow and stars
and ask myself why the hell
i ever went to sleep that night.

this is the second year
i've realized your voice
is fading from my mind,
and it scares me.

this is the first year
i've realized that it gets better
but no easier.