Getting ready for the day taking the kiddo to school
I'm listening to music to get me pumped about the day
Writing because I'm at peace things are well
I want a rush but its a temporary fix that fades
I don't think about her as much
Tired of missing people who don't want to be part of my life
Work is great I just do what needs to be done
I've been planning a date night
Making me time or hang with someone special
I'm one who loves and willing to do so
No one accepts I'm not lowering myself to be accepted
I smile more for once things feel right
I laugh because others actually have a sense of humor
Thankful for everything and the little things

There's always this stage, later on
after you have realized that you
actually can live without
this person, though it is a continuing
source of pain. At this point, everything
you were so scared of saying
for those long many months, somehow
has been said. You both know
how much you mean together, how
your conversations will go, what
the subtext clearly says, though not
said clearly. I know you miss
me, just as much as I continuously
miss you. After some point, I will know
you love me just as much as I
will try to show you how much I love
you, though I didn't believe it before and
I couldn't tell you so for old fears.
At this point, the wound of you
not being here will start to scab
over. The very essence of your unbeing
in my presence will dictate that you
cannot heal me, that I must live
with this pain and your vacancy. I will not
tell you I miss you, taking a knife
to my healing holes. Against my will,
I am pulling back. After the thrill
of "I miss you" has worn off, it only
brings pain with every utterance. I miss
you, I miss you I miss you I
miss you, and you are missing so profoundly
the very air around me sings
of your absence, whistling through emptinesses
that echo the ones inside. But sometimes
I would rather not remember
that you are missing.

I’ve worn
your Doors tee shirt.

It fitted you better
than it does me.

I remember you
wearing it
not long
before you died,
the Jim Morrison face
looking out at me
where your stomach
warmly used to be.

I wore it
in a kind
of remembrance;
a need to feel
where once
your body
snuggled up
against the cloth;
wanting to feel
the place
where you had touched,
to sense another feel
where you had been.

I didn’t want
to take it off.

It seemed another
warm embrace
of son and father,
like we did
just now and then,
less so,
for some reason,
as grown men.

I’ve worn
your Doors tee shirt.

It suited you better
than it does on me;
it hangs on me
where it hugged
you tight.

I’ll wear the tee shirt
with the Morrison features,
feel the cloth
which you once felt,
sense the touch
of you once more
in mind and heart;
believe some particle
of you may still
reside in cloth’s
worn hold,
that you
may ever be there
in every fold

Keys go in lots of doors,
Big,thin,fat,tall
İf you loose them it will be hard to find,
because they are very small.