Is this what dying feels like?
To the early mornings, puffy eyes, tear stained cheeks, and hiding myself under the sheer linens. My vision is blurred as pain clouds my eyes. No words come out of my chapped mouth. Dead silence. No food. No sleep.
All you can do is pray and take it.

One day, you'll awaken,
with blood shot eyes,
scratching at a five o'clock shadow,
even though it's seven o'clock
in the morning, and
wonder where it all went wrong. Where she all went wrong.

When the arches of her feet stopped
tiptoeing across the room
to kiss you good morning.
When the parallels of her calves
started making diagonals
when laying on the bed.
When the crook of her elbows
no longer wrapped around you
like the beautiful ribbon on the present you gave to her last Christmas.

Do you even know where that present is?
It's there,
up there on the shelf collecting dust
along with all the "I love yous"
and other promises that you stash away for cold winters nights,
when you crave her warmth,
and long to feel the chill of her sapphire-painted fingernails.

But somewhere between the cicadas of summer and the apples of autumn, you lost her along the way.
You lost the way her hair finds its way onto every surface of your house.
You can't find the way her nose wrinkles when she laughs,
even if you turn over all the couch cushions,
and look under the rug.

You check your file cabinets for the way her chest heaves when she sleeps,
and check in the pantry for the memories of her propped up on her elbows,
looking out the window sill at the rain,

But all that's left are phantoms of her amber scent,
and ghost-smiles that have all but gone stale.

And then you realize
that no amount
of milky coffee and doughnuts
can cut the bitterness of loss,
but you have to learn
to eat breakfast alone
eventually.

I always felt like I was on the verge
of losing you,
that I would forget the curve of your teeth
when you smile,
or the strength of your hands
propped up against my shoulders,
but that strength was never your own.
You just used it to see over my horizons.
You even said it yourself.

I was the one with broken fingers and spirits
that carried you through the shadows
of your valleys.

I was the one you stared at through salty eyes,
clutching your ribcage,
looking for your sister's heartbeat,
even though you could only find your own.

I was the one who laid next to you on the concrete,
starry-eyed and promise-drunk
looking up at the shooting souls
that tried to pass through
our atmosphere,
using the tails of their lives to better our own.

But I was the one who needed you
to make me better.  

I was the one who wanted
your January weddings.

I was the one who was your orchard,
your baby girl, your butterfly,
little wanderer,
the fragile thing you were so afraid of losing,
of letting go,
but crushed in between anxious palms
and phone calls.

I wanted to be a poet,
so I creased myself into
a bright blue envelope,
addressed to the moon,
and asked the Old Man
His thoughts about how vast
mountain ranges are contained only
by the bones of his ribs.

And He sat quiet, opening His crusted,
ancient mouth only to ask
"Do you love him?"

I stared, doe-eyed and small,
as the stars dimmed their chatter.
My cheeks lit up like comet tails,
but He nodded His head,
shutting the half moons of His eyes,
not asking questions, or rhymes,
or reasons.

"Then why do you stare up
at the stars at night
when the brightest one
lies fast asleep in your bed?"

Sometimes my heart aches, thinking about those that I got close to.
But they went away, without me reaching out to them about God.
I fail to minster to them , and now I feel ashamed that I fail them.
When I think about all those people whom made a difference in my life.
But I fail to make a difference in their lives while they were here.
So many people that needed Jesus but I fail back then to minster.
So now here I am missing being able to have been their true friend.
For now I try to Love with Agape Love, but I fail back then to.
I just am feeling so blue because I miss being able to minster to them.
The way that I should had, so tonight I pray one more time for others.

My thoughts are too loud
It is like shouting into empty rooms
And hearing naught but echoes,
Constant and crushing
The heaviness of their hollow sound
Like lead weights that pulse
Until your mind is flooding
And you are drowning.
I am drowning in my thoughts,
These lead weights are anchors
I will sink beneath my silent words
For to speak them means inhaling
Letting their sorrow fill my lungs
They have already taken my mind
They'll not have my breath, too.

From the subtle strokes
of a solemn wrist.
I can see so much
of her on this page.

It could be sadness,
or laughter.
Love sonnets,
or groceries.

Like her eyes,
I get lost
in the flow
of her lines.

❦