The rain still drips through my ceiling,
and I get that isolated feeling.
I reread your note,
slightly wet from the rain.
Over a hundred times I’ve read,
it still brings that similar pain.

On the night of my 21st year,
you were at the bar and drew me near.
Though it was hard to hear,
I could see your brown eyes filled with fear.
Then you described the details of your son,
and why your life was falling apart.
You looked at me asking where to start.
I recall you saying, “You don’t even realize,
how you cannot even see my dark eyes.”

As I stare into the mirror, each drunken night, it does not vary.
because every evening drifts me to the same cemetery.
This is where I sit and listen to your entity’s stories,
as I watch the pages fill with ink of sad memories.

We picked you up at the bus stop,
keeping all the silence, I was about to drop.
As we sat on my mother’s couch, we broke the news of your father’s death.
Never was something so difficult,
wishing it was my final breath.

On the way to visit your stone,
I can remember watching the blades of grass,
pass me by, oh so fast.
And looking up at the codes of street signs,
listening to the sound of wind chimes.
Then we would come to the bridge and I’d watch the still water,
pretending we were soaring over the endless unknown,
of the beautiful shimmering hydrogen way down below.
Once we scaled the peak we’d both smile and look down.

I stare into the mirror and find myself at the same cemetery.
In a passage of existential twilight,
I am securely fastened in a comforting, timeless moment.
Now I let the moment take over,
because there really is nothing past this.