They told me you were there in the room; I could hold you if I wanted — but you were no longer you. Not in any context I knew you as. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, I guess. Is my mourning selfish? I said: rest easy, you deserve peace but I just kept thinking: How could a whole person be condensed into a box? Purple, marbled, cold; one I held as an excuse not to let go. See, I had seen you yesterday but our farewells were not final at the time; how could a chance to say goodbye make up for all the love lost — when lost really means somehow ripped away entirely and still left inside of me anyway? What am I supposed to do with it now? This will happen to all of us. There’s a ghost in the living room — but the ghost isn’t you, either.