It is as though you split me off
somewhere at the edge of your awareness,
yet still close to your heart,
like a dear, old relation in a coma
living on life support.
You whisper things in his ear
you’d never tell him to his face;
you bring flowers for his sill,
and at Christmas—a tree.
You weep when he isn’t there
to cheer you at the race,
and one day,
when I’m gone,
you’ll pen a glowing eulogy.