Poetry

The five stages of grief,

except nobody died.

They still flow through me

like he's gone forever,

but does it really matter?

It's not like he knows who I am.

However, he is gone,

forever,

my family has claimed thanksgiving.

it's our holiday, you know,

the one we do the best,

and so it must be ours. we're joking,

mostly, but it's true we do thanksgiving very well

probably overdo but it's better

Watch, as I shall tear down the sky

reach for the stars, and burn my fingers

the world below me, silent does it lie

the stars and their burn - still lingers

lingers like lost, but not, quite lost

in my heart, hope is a quiet thing
a pulse beneath rubble
soft as breath against marble dust.

it doesn't sing
it lingers.
it waits in the cracks where sunlight pools
on mornings the mist forgets to rise.

Touched by your kindness,

I felt a sudden warmth in my chest.

If you can really say, "I love you"-

will my mind feel lighter?

Past closed doors,

I can hear a faint voice.

I can't make it go away,

I remember when

my eyes met his—

the ghost boy with the pink hair and the fake life.

Right, he sighed. Guess we're climbing a skyscraper tonight, you ready, lame traffic earring?

He pleads and begs with knees rusty and matted

Feet of vines to soak the fall not bound like his wife's

before Dysentery dragged His sword

into her glowing heart.

A guarded truth of us 

We turn the pages

One by one

For we are the stories

Without endings

Like mirages that only come true through

a cloaked gaze

They are dug into history

Encrypted with prints

We locked eyes, if only for a fleeting moment.

You- you're- you're really here.

Right?

I really couldn't believe it. 

Tears welled in my eyes

as I thought about everything that had gone on.

I feel bad for you.

But I feel worse for me.

For having to walk away.

To leave you here in this cold, clean place,

bound by a wish you never truly made.

The drop beneath us didn't matter anymore,

The air tasted different here.

Too cold.

Too clean.

Like standing at the very top of a world that didn't want you in it.

He stood there, next to that... thing... that wore his face.

He'd always pick on me,

about a specific "lame traffic earring."

And he'd always be talking about dirty things, and then accuse me of thinking about them.

It used to really annoy me.

And now I miss it.

I miss him.