I peered in every puddle
on the way home,
the storm had left them squirming
in short and shallow lakes on the
empty roads.

I tried looking in mirrors
and dark windows
but you were't reflected
in any of them.

The water shuddered
with every blast of wind;
shadows bounced around
and for a few moments,
I thought I could see your shadow
by my side.

As if you could only survive in
violence and motion.

The wind died down
and only the streetlights were reflected,
spaced unequally along the road,
like broken stars.

five more minutes,
five more hours,
five more days,
five more seconds,
with you (it's all i ask).

cradled against you.
how much closer
can we get?
the space between
seems so vast.

and yet you feel
like warm sand
molded to my body,
just so.

your fingers
layered with mine,
and your moist breath
falling over my neck...
light filters in and feathers float by.

Death is not the final word.
Without ears, my father still listens,
still shrugs his shoulders
whenever I ask a question he doesn't want to answer.

I stand at the closet door, my hand on the ****,
my hip leaning against the frame and ask him
what does he think about the war in Iraq
and how does he feel about his oldest daughter
getting married to a man she met on the Internet.

Without eyes, my father still looks around.
He sees what I am trying to do, sees that I
have grown less passive with his passing,
understands my need for answers only he can provide.

I imagine him drawing a breath, sensing
his lungs once again filling with air, his thoughts ballooning.

If I sleep
I sleep without silence
without the soothing rhythm
the smooth breaths

without the rocking motions
the calm of the ocean's depths
there is no comfort
if I sleep

Clutch at air for water to fall,
Frozen through memories of time.
The cooling touch of horror and tears,
Fall on truth yet stay for years.