the way life used to be
isn't what i miss,
it's each individual moment-
lapsing over and over one another
creating an inconceivable picture
of everything i love,
now lost

mostly it is the darker days,
   povoking thought.
tracing memories from
   forgotten fingertips.

words silenced.
voices forgotten.
perfect mornings.
  always changing.

    mostly it's the same.

feeling reality,
    fleeing god.

tonight, it's perfectly
clear to me.
i'm sorry.

From experience,
I've realised that a
poem never changed anything.

beneath the star-struck, eternal vast,
    painted black, blue-grey black -
voices blister of the past.

haven't felt this way in quite some time.
    the restless nights. this cold, empty bed.
unrhythmic breaths flood my chest
    as I watch my mother die
                         for the second time.

it's moments like these you never forget.
    find yourself waking in a cold, hot sweat.
mind tracing every syllable, every breath;
    remembering every word you should have said.

with eyes like a beating heart;
   smells of daisy wanderlust.
soul-fire like passion's spark;
   worn-out smiles like last night's luck.

we lie, tangled.
her body and mine.
motionless, fingertips
to skin.

the voice inside my head
no longer speaks

weary of missing just one word.
or worse, breaking the silence.

it's truly perfect.

flashback

she called for the first time in a few months.

"Hi." She said.
"Hey, what's up?" I ask.
"Just got off work, wanna come over?"
"Sure."

flash-forward

she knew exactly what I would say
and it always ends the same.

the thought of her, replacing what
some call sleep, had almost rested.
now, here i am.. too late or too
early into the morning,
thinking of her and writing
to ease my trembling hand.

my sister thought my mother
had died on her lap;
she walked to the bathroom
inside that depthless hospital hotel.

the putrid smell of life and death
all through-out this concrete heaven
and hell.

at the age of fifty-four
my mother's bones would
carry no more weight.

her gentle heart
her forgiving mind
her words so strong

but mine,
they are forced out
by constricted wind-pipes
and angry words

i glanced down at the cot, where my mother died
as I made contact with my mother's pale-blue eyes
she looked at me with the most helpless,
childish face I've ever seen.
as if to say:
"he isn't here.. where is he...
where could he be?"

she lived thirty more minutes.

he arrived a few hours later, asking:
"how's she doin'?"

never take for granted,
someone's borrowed time.