Its been years
And your voice seems so far away
It's been years
And your hug feels faint
Its been years
And I miss you everyday
Its been years
But the pain doesn't go away
And life isn't the same
I miss you with ALL of my heart
And it skips a beat
Now that we are apart
Life isn't the same
And its been years

The plants that I tended to all summer long,
They were all so fragrant and beautiful and strong.
But somewhere along the way, I forgot they were there
And when they started to wilt, I just didn't care.
I probably could have saved the plants if I had tried.
But I didn't, and so it is my fault that they didn't survive.

My brother had everything going for him, nothing was wrong.
He was so full of life and beautiful and strong.
I felt that little tug, but I ignored it and walked away.
I was the last one to see him alive that day.
I still feel like I could have saved him if I had tried.
But because I didn't stay, that was the day that he died.

My apathy is what killed them, and I know that this is true.
But I can't stop feeling nothing, I just don't know what to do.
The more things that die, the more things that I ****.
But I don't know how to stop this, so I keep standing still.

In this moment, I love the face of a dead man,
Repeated by chance in the guise of a stranger.

His lips quirk the same way in
Sweet sarcasm,
And in that moment,
Three years beneath the earth scatters,
Ashes to the wind.

And you are here.

His shoulders span the same width
And I know- cupped in my
Needful, grasping palms-
Their touch before I even
Pass a phrase to their owner.

I know, his abrasiveness is softened from a scour
To a pleasant heat
And those who hate it
Love him fiercely, unreasonably, and unquestioningly.

I know this
And yet this man
Is nothing more than a mirage left
In the wake of a fire storm.


After the remnants of goose-flesh have failed to leave my skin
I'll take it.

We might
pretend to understand, but
we don't.
Perhaps it only
feels finite.
Perhaps we only mourn so well
because we look
so good in black.
Some days, that
horizon looks closer
than others, but
it's hard to say
what, if anything, that means.
Seven months could
be a whole lifetime.
You can turn
eighty years into
a false start or
an apology.

Still… it's not enough.
Nonetheless... that makes no difference.

Time and space and matter
continue to exist,
and the same senseless
tragedies repeat.
A pain that once
seemed strange
becomes cyclical and
intimately familiar.
These brutalising patterns.
These seasons of loss.
Winter in July.
Graves that can never be
deep enough.
I know you.
We've done this before.
This feeling is closer and
more known to me
than the calluses
on my palms
that have almost healed
somehow.
Fading stigmata.
Apostle of a
small slain god.

I'm not making sense, and I know
I'm not making sense,
but then nothing does.

It was on a Friday they told me you were dead.

And Daddy was away
And didn't know to come right away
And my friend gave me lilies
Because what was there to say?

For a week I carried you
Still, heavy, silent
A breathing tomb.

I birthed you on Good Friday morning
Held you in the hollow of my hand
Tiny, formed, delicate, alabaster -

David.

My baby
Who lived in my hope
But died in my body
Who lived in my heart
But never in my arms

They told us we could bury you
So we did
In our own soil
Paper shroud, shoebox coffin
Mommy's letter in a bottle.

I planted a lilac to remember you by.

Time passed
We moved away
I had to leave you and the letter and the lilac behind.

Still I am moving away
Leaving you and the letter and the lilac behind.

Brew tragedy tea
and drink without
tasting it.
Keep checking the meaning of
'forever',
in case it's been redefined
in less absolute terms.
Shiver through the heatwave and watch
the colour bleed out of the summer.
Dig a hole that won't be deep enough.
Shower off the crazy sweat and grave dirt
and pretend like maybe
you'll do the dishes.
Rupture your inner workings
as you scream at the universe
for ******* up so badly.
Lapse into the cold, sterile embrace
of catatonia, grateful
to feel nothing for a while.
Cry so long and so hard you forget
why you're crying,
then remember and cry
longer and harder.
Try brokering a deal with fate's
Appeals Department: offer
your organs, your eyesight,
however many years off your life,
to get him back.
Search for meaning and find none.
Rage against the perversity of it all.
Howl that death shouldn't feel derivative.
Remind yourself that this
isn't just a sick joke.
Hate Elisabeth Kübler-Ross for being right
and yourself for being so generically human.
Realise how little
knowing helps.
Reacquaint yourself with anhedonia.
Try not to hate the blue sky
or the birds who have returned
to sing in his back garden.

the pain doesn't go away
it only grows deeper
becomes buried
and from time to time
resurfaces, often when
you least expect it
when you're washing dishes
or driving home
your thoughts wander
to hidden memories
and before you know it
your eyes fill with tears
you try to wipe them away
and push these thoughts aside
but why would you want to forget
something that you care so deeply for?

A buzzing. A whooshing pressure.

My body is here but where am I?

Deep inside my head

The empty seat in front of me comes back into focus

I dreamt a lacquered coffin

Now I see one

People I should know milling about

Exiled from the family, I keep a respectful distance

This poses a semantic problem for people:

“I’m sorry for… your loss?” Their loss? The loss?

I can’t process this strange mix of emotions

So I stay deep inside my head

And wait for my body to walk away