I talk to you as though you're still here
in the room with me, watching me work
I tell you about all of the things you've missed:
my acceptance to grad school and thesis
how I've started watercolour painting
and learning Japanese
reading Rilke and writing poetry again
you would've loved that

and I tell you about grief and loss and death
how I should've stayed with you that day
I saw your heart shatter and break
you were gone just a week later
I had never seen anyone in so much pain
but when I held your hand and said I was there
I swear I felt you try to squeeze it back still
even through your dyspnea and delirium

I still see you, you know?
when I look in the mirror it's not my face
but yours looking back at me
and when I write they are not my words
but yours reflected back on the page
and sometimes, when I am quiet enough
I can hear your replies to me, too
and you talk to me, as though you're still here