I.

 

closure. 

 

the rituals exist,

to face what can’t be fixed.

you ask me when the weight will lift: 

a question morally remiss. 

 

space and time, suspended

leave the wounds, unmended.

with no warning, he ascended — 

not the ending I projected.

 

he visits me in dreams;

he radiates, and gleams

yet out of reach, in foreign scenes — 

scenarios no closure brings. 

 

the days will pass me by

and I can’t fathom why —

his essence, luminous, sublime, 

the one panacea is time. 

______________________

II.

 

The last few months have felt more like years;

I could not possibly count my tears.

Though the shock of it all has faded,

I find myself lonely and jaded.

 

I lost the one who knew me the best,

My priority before the rest,

The one so stubbornly on my mind,

Always informed and never behind.

 

Every time I hear music you liked,

Or re-read a text message you typed,

Or think of the things you liked to do,

I cannot deny that I miss you.

 

Only a few understand my woes,

And the rest are lucky, I suppose,

I think of you and it makes me weak,

I wonder sometimes, “Why you? Why me?”

 

 ______________________

III.

 

Since your demise, time has slowed down,

And I have grown callous and sour.

 

I looked for answers; what I found,

Is to take it by the hour.

 

Are you the monarch butterfly,

Who dances in my yard each day? 

 

And when I whimper to the sky,

Are you hearing the words I say?

 

It’s not as if I have a choice;

If I did, you know what I’d do.

 

I’m learning I won’t hear your voice,

And learning how change changes you.

 

My emptiness will ebb and flow;

I try and fail to find meaning.

 

Why you suffered, I’ll never know,

And I don't see an end to grieving. 

______________________

IV.

 

I scan the horizon

Rife with wanton cruelty,

I blather to you 

Wondering if you hear me,

I attempt to go on

But my efforts are paltry,

And now that you're gone

I’m woefully lonely.

 

Perhaps rumination

Has become a habit,

But months have dragged on 

And I still cannot grasp it;

I cannot deny 

I’m perpetually saddened,

But I won’t pretend 

That you never happened.

 

Pinter and Reilly 

And Barthes and Artaud:

The artists and writers 

Who comprised our code,

The subjects of banter

That endlessly flowed,

Will now serve as escorts

Down my arduous road.