‘Three Months Ago, in August’

I cannot think,

when your thoughts are all I have,

and you cannot think,

not anymore.

I laid on the floor

in a home where I now float,

where you made me touch the hearth,

convinced me that stone

was my own bone,

that my flesh was the walls,

that where we reside

is where houses our hearts,

wood and cement, you said,

not too different from sinew.

She holds your thoughts too,

plain, on her arms,

begging you back.

We all are.

You balanced your drained beer bottle

on top of the flat of your hand,

said life was a lot,

but this studio holds us here,

the front glass door just a mirror,

and together our laughter dances

like flames in the wood.

You glowed.

You always did,

and that night,

you were the sharpest light

we saw.

And now the dark has gated us in,

rain has fallen and time has turned,

and it has been three months

since the sour song we sang on that hill,

imbibing the bodies so devoid

of the man we once knew,

and I have sobbed myself blind

on the bathroom floor,

drenched in agony,

asking for answers I’ll never get,

wrenching my heart dry.

Nothing has felt real, not really.

Every touch is a ghost of the intention,

a mirrored image portrait caught in time,

and I have seen so many

who look like you.

Do you dance amongst these people?

Shift your likeness

onto the barren facades,

to say hello?

Or have your thoughts

and the thoughts of you

become everything

I cannot think about?


It has been hard to write since you left. I find my voice has quieted from the grief. I miss you so, so much.

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