The world is strange
how for some death is a petite mort
for others, not pleasure nor hell
just a slice to be taken out and left without warmth
they can with their approximating whole
continue without sore heart
while others
they are vigil in grief
nothing mends what is broken
I was told once this is weak
it is the substance of survival that we let go, move on
those who are able to open their fists
those who feel less or brew sense of senseless things
I am therefore not strong
for death stings like it has
pressed its poisonous quill deep
my heart lays heavy in its fur cloak
nothing really aids grief
but the passing of time and memory
ushering us further from the moment
like a worried parent seeking retreat
though we know
as with all circles we will return inevitably to completion
and I wonder since I do not believe
in Gods and Devils
but occasionally I am convinced monsters may, be an exception
where then, shall we find ourselves?
after all our pieces have fallen and the board is emptied
will I feel you next to me still?
as dust, we strive to rejoin star light
or will a wink be simply a wink out?
and so gentle light is drowned
for a time it worried me until
I saw this as a curtain fall, something peaceful almost alluring
what hurts us is not our own demise
but the loss of others to the other side
where shade invagels night and the smudge of life
for none of us
not even the preacher
who believes he sees the face of Jesus in the sky
can truly know what happens
when those we love die
it is the ache of their absence
even if that love was filled with holes
incomplete moments where like a colindar 
we saw more water fall than keep
I know loving me was at best a fractured and intermittent thing
but real love is not how you felt, it is the emotion I had
Stirred into my rise, even as you walked away 
even as need became a habit, not a desire
I may have always been
following you, looking for breadcrumbs
and you may have rarely noticed
your child who wanted so badly to matter
but I find time changes those emotions
it is ultimately the love I bare
irrespective of your own
that will hurt the most
when you are not around to call
hoping you pick up the phone or
send me a postcard ‘I am having a wonderful time’
and my only regret will be
just one more day I’d like
to know you were on this earth
a feeling of being as secure as you can
with nothing underfoot
we get used to little, us, children of absence
we learn to eat what we are given
and from nothing comes so much
it springs up 
around emptied houses and abandoned lots
like red weeds will show
vivid and wild
in a landscape of naught
we are the tender feelings who labor
in spite of all
and that I believe is the depth and mercy
of a full heart