Footprints melted into the snow disappear as a new, pure white blanket falls to rest on top. Steam rises from my coffee cup and dissipates into the cold air. I step outside and sigh heavily. It is quiet but I know I am not alone. I hear you in the wind. I feel you as the bitter cold embraces my body. Tiny hairs stand up on my neck underneath my newly short hair. I cut it all off after you left.

I walk four blocks from the coffee shop. I’m not sure where my feet are taking me. I pick a small, fragile flower that is somehow holding on to life in this chilly weather. God knows it’s doing a better job than I am. I turn the corner and suddenly I know exactly where I am. I walk on further and my trembling legs give out. I kneel down and lightly graze the cold, marble stone. It is freezing, but the slightest touch burns me to the core. I read your name about a dozen times. I remember the flower I subconsciously picked. I want to lay it by your stone but my hands wont let go. I think I’ll keep it. I stuff it back into my bag trying my best to preserve its pristine state. Tears freeze on my eyelashes and cling for dear life, causing me to blink rapidly. I look down until I can’t anymore. It's all too much to handle. The wind blows and I follow its path with my eyes. I watch it shudder through the dead branches on the trees. My gaze follows until it is gone... Until you are gone...

I miss you.

Anticipation drips down my body. It follows the curve of my back and dribbles down my spine. I stare out the window but i’m not really looking at anything. I breathe slowly, timing each breath with the hum of the radiator. I don’t know what I am waiting for; I know you’ll never come back. Yet still my heart aches to hear the doorknob jiggle. It never does. I sit, loathing in a sea of disappointment. I regain focus and stare out the window again. I suppose that I'm looking for any signs of you: your car, the mailman, maybe even the slightest chance that I could find your footprints in the snow and follow them to where you are. Look, now I’ve gone crazy. Except, I already am crazy. I even have a doctor to prove that. But when you are near, I don’t feel so bad. When you are here, I want to be better.

I don’t know where you are but you’ve been gone for days. I stand up and pace the apartment. My eyes scan the room for signs of you. Your existence is minimal. Who knows if you even existed? I’ve been known to make things up in my mind. Is that why you left? You promised me that you would always be here. Did it get too hard for you to stay? I tried my best to make it easier. Maybe if I try harder, you’d come back…

I walk to the counter and reach for the tiny, translucent bottle. One pill. Not good enough. Two pills. Maybe. Three pills. I don’t feel anything. Two more just to be sure. Soon enough the whole bottle is gone and I lay on the floor. I cannot feel my own body. The world is spinning. You are still not here. I shut my eyes.

I danced with Death,

he took me by the hand.

He lead me to the ballroom floor

where we both would stand.



Our bodies swayed

in perfect harmony,

but I knew in my heart

this was not right for me.



Watching us dance from the crowd,

a man so full of joy,

but you would never know by his hardened face,

that Life lived in this boy.



The figure with whom I danced

had cold hands which touched me so,

and when I caught a glimpse of Life himself,

I knew I had to go.



I bid adieu to my partner Death,

who I considered now a friend,

and as I walked away with Life,

I knew we would meet again.

I wanted to write/type/say
exactly how/what/why
I felt
but somehow
the paper/screen/air/mouth
stayed pure and empty
somehow it could not
have described it
any better

I tie the ribbon foolishly,
and I feel the warmth of my mother behind me
as she grabs my shaking hands.
“Calm yourself, Stella,
I know these times are troubling.”
Her hands guide mine,
up and over,
once around and then through the loop.
We’ve made a perfect bow.
“It looks beautiful,”
I struggle to say.
And it does. The bright purple fabric
contrasts with the deep chestnut
brown of the casket,
and matches the purple flowers
hanging from the sky.
“He would love it,”
I try to comfort my mother.
I know she’s holding it all in,
but sooner or later,
she wont anymore.
As much as I forget it,
my mother is actually human.
We stand there for a minute,
and I take a deep breath
as my eyes scan the room,
with sniffling noses
and rainy cheeks.
I take a deep breath
and breathe in
the delicious fragility of this travesty.
We are all so fragile now.
The canopy overhead blocks the intense sun.
Mother is upset because it’s not suppose to be sunny
on the day of your husband’s funeral,
it’s suppose to rain.
“They say it’s good luck,” she mumbles,
looking up at the cloudless sky,
and I rest my hand on her shoulder,
because really, what else can I do?
I lead her over to a chair, because making her sit down
felt like the right thing to do. I’m actually not very sure
what the right thing to do is anymore.
When someone is taken from us,
they leave with a suitcase
packed with smiles and happiness,
and memories of places
where we still laugh and wish.
He left with all of that, my father,
and one day I suppose we’ll all follow after him.

You’re like that cup of coffee,
At six in the morning,
Before a long day begins.
You keep me going,
For a few hours,
And then at night,
I crash.