I see you still ******* on cancer,
it’s nothing new—
but I’m struck by your empty eyes
and his bear-trap arms
holding you inside yourself.
It’s been a few years,
but what is time, anyway?
when you’ve been frozen solid,
little compartments of smiles and
memories that were real, or felt real.

But, who am I to reproach you?
my empty peace is the same things:
body heat to be cradled by;
a socially-acceptable habit
to balance the lingering drain of tar,
softened brain, hardened heart.
It’s so nice to see you well,
but the sting of unanswered questions
sticks around, chipping away
my chest, that place you used to call home.