Do you remember the questions you used to ask about dying? About grief and then pain that wash over you in freezing pales of regret? Are you supposed to remember every minuscule detail before you completely forget?
You choke on your own verses to convince yourself and then everyone else about acceptance-- the magic that should lead to recovery yet, knowing that most poems are just lengthy epitaphs for all the people we refuse to bury alive; that most poets die as they try to relive faded images, wishing they could turn back time.
There is love in lamentation-- in how the living die with the dead; how years of November air become the oxygen that slowly suffocates them, how the things they love most create consuming black holes they still succumb to long after their beloved's faux passing.