Good Bye

I woke up in a puddle with his memory
wrapped around me. The angels were heavy tonight.
I welcomed him back from the dead tonight,
but he did not welcome life.

He must have been tossed down from Heaven,
after riding Angels bare-back. His jaw was clasped tight,
reminding me of December when the snow fell so
hard that it dug into the backs
of the trigger happy.

We watched death fall out together, a few flights
up, before he dropped the dog on his tail.
Life must remind him of amputation now.

He took me to his rickety, flimsy boyhood.
I scolded him about the thin boards
nailed together clumsily,
and told him that this was not a safe place to be.
He protested it’s security.

He never asked for his old things, but I had them.
They were treasures.
Old t-shirts, books, jewelry. My frustrated fingers
rummaged through
everything that he could have come back for.
But, he did not want.

I told him, “do you know what it is going to do
to me if you die again?”, then I realized that he did not breathe,
or pulsate, or belong…

my eyes began to flood, and then I heard a voice,
from silence,
from life,
from inside…

“Oh!  This is her saying good-bye!”

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10 thoughts on “Good Bye

  1. I hope you write a whole book like this. The line “Life must remind him of amputation now” just hit me in the face and burned a memory in my head. Love it.

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