Separate phone plans.
Separate bank accounts.
Separate vehicles.
Separate homes.
Separate insurance.
Separate hearts.
Separate lives.

Separate.

The hold music is especially poignant today
and my heart is hurting
as I wash the last dish you ever used,
feeling the last warm water that involves you,
with my fingers wrinkling up one last time
as I commit this morning ritual,
again,
with no one to celebrate it with.

Straw-colored veil
falls naturally into itself.

She smiles,
not knowing its power.

Little bones etch the flesh
and quickly clouds are parting,
laying out their symphony
of rain upon this tightened roof.

In her fragility
she shines,
so strong.

Your Mother died
at only thirty,
when you were just
thirteen.

I'm sure you've always wondered,
and so have I,
whether you would live longer
than her.

Turns out,
you died at thirty,
too.

It's funny how quickly
people disrespect you,  
when you start realizing
your worth.

I said I could never be mad at you
but you pushed
until you made
me a liar.

The thing you begged for
and were gladly given
has turned
and you have bitten the hand.