Down the stairs, my hands a shield for incoming priority mail, and trained for the way your body would hug me closer with every exhale.
Your mother won’t stop calling. Kind of like the week we spent hopeful before they sent you away. Kind of like me just trying to hear your voice, always searching for something that’s calming.
The windows have been open since yesterday, and I heard the bird sing to its sky, “I love you” before it started to rain, darkness swallowed up the sun’s sky and wilted all our daisy-chains.
Rescued frames surround me, reserved to tell your stories. The breeze never fails me, it carries your scent in flurries. If I try hard enough, I could feel it
through my hair, and on my lips. Every night the breeze brings with it a solar eclipse that soaks through my skin, and intertwines with my blood cells, going straight to the bones that keep my body from further farewells.
Tomorrow I will build a home with the words of your silent prayer. My cracked walls will be painted with your skin and the scent of your hair. My new bed will be made with old t-shirts you always used to wear.
If I could fit your eulogy on this page I’d make sure to mention the breeze that whirls through the center of my chest, and my lungs that faithfully breath the air that may have once circled your ribcage.