a phone rings to my displeasure
- another time spent
in your voice
in your precious respect:
the one demanded
for which i was reprimanded
and ****** for returning empty handed;

and i ignore your call
long enough for it to get lost again
but your name
lingers inside my brain
the image of your name
the only markings behind my closed eyes-
i dont want to see it
i dont want your name to be it
i dont want to read it
i dont want to open your voice message
i dont want to believe it
i dont want to think it
i dont want to dream it
i dont want to watch your name flash by
i dont ever want my path to cross between it;
fifty five years of seeing your name cross out mine
is enough for me to finally delete it.

-a father's hand reaching out,
means nothing once its reaching
has been to pull and tear, and rip apart;
the pain is the only lasting feeling.

Who owns grief?
The one who cries the loudest?
The one who acts the most disturbed?
     Or *******-ish?
     Or eerily withdrawn and quiet?
The one who had The Best Relationship with the dead?
     The most unresolved?
The one who feels the most guilt?
     Who feels out of place at the funeral?
     Who resents the world?
     Who is named in the will?

How many people can have a share?
Who is allowed a say on the Board of Grief?
     Are children underage?

How powerful are the grieving?
Enough to command a neighbor’s chicken soup?
     Casserole?
     Cake?
     Family heirloom?
     House?
     Family entire?
     Telephone call?

From a distance I leap,
But no, I can't find you.
The sun is rising.
The glimpse echoes in the deep of the far east.
The beautiful days and memories of the endless love we both shared is lost.

How did it come to this?
Like a night without the moon and stars,
I lay darkened.
Alas, my heart lingers with great pains.
Shadows and flames of surprise and sadness conquers my mind.

Yes, I can feel it; even in my spines.
It is over.
There is no hope at all.

A new light from the recesses of my pains shall spring forth.
And in the solitude of my anguish,

I would sail on.
Often as the sun rises and sets,
I would banish and bury the memories of your love.
And never in the blooms of history,
Would I recall to it.

You are in my written poetry
I portray you as someone I look up to
I sense the feeling you're capable
Of being that person.
You are in my head
Pinpointing the level of anxiety
I get from you, when you tell me you have fantasies of other people.

I portray you as my killer
You killed the most beautiful thing inside me
You wrapped me up in a plastic bag
And sold my heart to the wolves.
I portrayed you as the person
Who lifts me; in reality you brought me to my knees.

I want to see you as the better person,
But that just hasn't happened.