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.