​he who is like god

there is nothing else to say. to you or my own spinning thoughts.
there is nothing else to say.
as we ended our time
in that house
together
for the last time,
the courage i mustered
left over from a year of thought
and processing 
the millions of times i have grieved to hold you
and had the chance to
and not done

culminated
in wrenching aching twists 
of sinew and spine
to curl in on myself 
and weep

with water about my ears
to muffle the world
taking care not to show me how else i could be listening
to my shattered sense of self

the bathroom.
your parents bedroom.
(they used to have a canopy. being only ever there in the night, the evening of my siblings birth returns to me, as i pad across the warm vanilla carpets in the dark, listening to nothing and remembering, in moments the solidness of the massive cloth above and around me in the dim and blur as drowsy excitement lit up my tired bones. i have no idea if you were there. where were you?)
you are in your room. 
the door is shut, 
tight, it’s locked i know
and I curse myself for another wasted night.

I am very tired though.
and a piece of me settles in endings.
this would have been it, but i think something now is old and grey and dying 
(it's dead, has ended. 

stupid.)

I return to the cornered nest of sweet smelling blankets.
lain light across the corners by the window
where i can hear the whistle trains
pass and scream their crying moan into the crushing black of night
the lights go off, the pollution spreads in
across the mattress, over contours in my sleepy body

I feel as a child again
resting, resting
you through the wall
as the shower steam escapes from bathrooms across the hall
clean, now. 
in the silent air surrounding us
in the family house
(family house, your family’s house)

empty house.
we are alone.
hopefully healing.