you were eight weeks old
a small thing
but our hands were smaller
still, you fit there
held as though you were meant to break
maybe someday, but not today.

today, you made love into a character trait
it curled into our chests and settled there, somewhere
and the weight of it has grown
for i have not room to breathe
it has not left.

now, there is nothing left of you
save for blurred images
blurry eyes, salt water drops rippling in an ocean—

i used to take you there.
there, you would greet everyone new
like they existed just to learn your name
there, a child said hello to you for the first time
fifteen years later, you said it back for the last.

and i could not help but to think
if you had died eleven days later
you would have seen the flowers bloom.

i will not fall in love with you.


i will not fall in love with the way it feels when i finally get you to laugh at one of my jokes. or the way you leave coca-cola cans piled up on your desk. i will not smile when you bang open the door of my room and cackle when i jump out of my skin.


i will not play the piano for you as you go still on the couch. or sit on the deck outside and smile bitterly as we contemplate why we exist. i will not go camping with you by the river and balance stones, because wont they fall over in time, anyways?


i will not listen when you tell me of the work you do. when you tell me of the people you have helped, the way you go on and on so enthusiastically. i will not wash my hands of dirt after i help you plant flowers in the summer, the way you do every year.


i will not greet you as you come through the door. i will not ask you questions of the way the world works, because i dont want to hear your answer. i will not tuck my head under your chin when youre cooking in the kitchen, because i dont want to feel your heart beat next to mine.


i will not walk along the beach with you. i will not watch as you bump your head on the logs scattered along the sand, as you greet everyone new like they exist just to learn your name. i will not call for you to lay beside me when the street lights turn on outside.


instead, i will yell and close the door and rest my brow against its white paint.

i will step barefoot into the water and close my eyes as the sounds of your guitar dance through the leaves.  

i will wipe my hands on my jeans, and pick at the soil beneath my fingernails, and wonder aloud if we could plant lemongrass instead of roses.

i will stand beside you and lean into you until you stumble and laugh, until you admonish me while i grin cheekily up at you.

and i will not have to ask you to come to me, because you will already be there.

i will not ascend to the kingdom of god
nor fall to greet my demons as old friends

rather, permit my bones to blend with the soil of your garden
let my blood affix to the roots of the quivering yew
and allow me to rest in the arms of the earth

for my time here was heaven
and i've no need of more than you.

this house is safety.

it is gentle christmas mornings with gifts piled at our feet
warm afternoons spent playing every song ive ever known
quiet nights reminiscing over old friends and soft harmonies

this house is safety.

it is hugs after work
(these tender, stolen moments)
and just one more story before bed

but i still cant sit on the couch downstairs.

you cant turn back yesterday
or today
or tomorrow

but you can change the past
into a better present
and a better future

soon, i will say good-bye.
i will hold you between my palms as you take your final breaths
i will look into your eyes as they close for the last time
i will whisper "i love you" as you still in my arms

and i know
i will wonder if having you was ever worth it
i know
i will cry and scream with the bitterness, the injustice of it all
and i know.
i will decide that i could never regret loving you.

i know, i know, i know.

there is laughter here
it hides behind their vacant gaze
so far, and yet so near
resting in a forlorn haze

we are boundless
loose ends untied as we
stare blankly into this mess
unforgivingly