"She never looked nice. She looked like art, && art wasn't supposed to look nice; it was supposed to make you feel something."



Do I make you feel something?

She only writes in black ink;
her thoughts are much too dark
for the blue.

I've traced the pillow's edge pretending it was your back for some time now,
acting as if you'd been lying beside me this whole time.
Whether sharing a bed with you is plausible or not is still a mystery to me.
I'd always imagined you to be a very warm person,
and I'd like not to have to get more blankets every night.
Lately, though, I'm beginning to think the opposite.
Maybe the bed being cold and empty
is a proper representation of your presence after all.

Life is about hands.**

It is about you
Staring at them
Tired but joyful
While your first child lays in your arms
Sleeping and closing a fist around your index.

It is about you
Staring at them
After you hurried into hospital
Holding your mothers hands
And begging her to stay.

It is about you
Staring at them
Trying to keep them still
Yet all they do is shake
And you don't know why
Because  you aren't even nervous.

It is about you
Staring at them
While you introduce yourself to some teenagers
Who are baffled and tell you that they already know you
Because they are your grandchildren
And you try to remember their names.

It is about you
Staring at them
Before you place them around your own neck
Wishing it would be easy to **** yourself
Because the pain is so hard to stand
And you have become so weak.

And it is about your children
Staring at their own hands
While they hold yours
Which are no longer warm and full of life
But cold and stiff.
And they wish they wouldn't hold them for the last time.