I use your urn
I use the heart shaped velvet box I keep your urn in
to prop my phone up during therapy.
A choice I may choose to examine.

I keep it in my “workspace”,
a workspace I neglect
until it is time for therapy.
telehealth with Sherri Steele,
a professional


It’s a place so hard for me to be,
to think, to straighten up.
Sealed letters, dried flowers, undeveloped film.

then I walk away when it’s over.


There’s a secret
I do not disclose


to Sherri
or myself


In lucid moments I can see
the shade you colored my life when you left.
Out of focus, still on my mind

a crushed, pale blue.

all I have to offer are these ugly, ragged breaths.

-

it’s all quiet but you snoring upstairs.
the harmonized hum of the kitchen,
a bird down the block.

A musical masterpiece,
synchronized symphony;

It’s like you all practiced for hours.


I can’t help but notice
the peace you bring with you;
as in, its shear force.

It blows back the curtains,
leaving nothing in its wake.

Can you believe it?
Nothing.

No fear; no questions, doubt.
I have so long dreamed of this;
a gentle, subtle bliss.
This quiet nothingness.


With the exception of you snoring.
some hums in the kitchen,
a bird down the block.

Grief is a tough customer.
very demanding,
never satisfied.

A debt collector,
with letters in caps.
How do I tell them you’re dead?

I saw you blue.
felt you cold,
smelt what replaced your blood.
Now you’re reduced to rubble.

Kiss your urn,
warm in my hands.
See you when I blink

I can’t wait to see you.


Oh, you’re not in trouble, baby.


You know I love you, don’t you?
I love you forever.

Since forever, on.

do you still feel it too?


How could I dare wake you
from this, most peaceful sleep?
Selfishly, and cruelly.
easily. I would.


This pain is mine now.

I am happy to wince when remembering you;
in fact, I refuse to forget.


Grief, violent as our joy.

it wasn’t a secret
that I meant to keep from you.

it was something that was mine,
I was still guarding.