I forgot he was dead all the time.
I never saw the body, and couldn’t attend the memorial.
I went to other cities, and I told people about him;
I used the present tense-
“A family friend, who makes these beautiful paintings and sculptures!"
And I would tell the story, and even in the telling, the end would surprise me...
There are people I met who don’t know he died,
Because I got to the end and couldn’t finish it.
How could I bring something so lovely into their lives,
And then ****** it away in the same breath?
The artist died, but I forget. I forget every day.
I look at his painting of a sphinx cat, and wish him well,
And the signal pings back off his bones,
And it pings back to me, and the people I told,
And the museum in my home town, where they hang his name.
The artist died, and now the story should be over.
Yet every time it's told, my breath catches and I stay silent,
And in the quiet, I wish for the artist to live on