Don't think
I’ll ever
get use to this:
your death,
your not being here,
the absence of you
in my chair,
sitting there,
silent,
with your
humorous grin.

I expect you
to come in
at your usual time,
on the usual days,
your hungry bear
walk, you searching
for food on table
and oven and fridge;
sitting watching TV
or some video,
playing games,
football crazy,
soft swearing
at the referee.

I can't believe
you've gone;
can't quite fix it
in my head,
the  hard fact
you're dead.

I see play over
and over
in my mind's eye,
that last talk,
you puffed
and unwell;
the mundane
conversation,
the minutes ticking by,
you seemingly
soon to go,
soon for the first time
to die.

Unanswered questions
remain
of who
and how
and why?