simple

It is waiting,

the waiting when someone dies,

like they’ll come back.

The way they held onto your shirt,

and you mimic it,

desperate.

The sigh of their eyes,

when everything is laid open,

bodies,

journals,

closets,

bones.

Blame is a wretched lover,

blame is a ripped canvas.

Did they love me?

is always the question,

even when they stand in front of you,

or in front of someone else.

Are lies love?  Does pretend love

count?

I mourn such passings,

the ones

where we are all

still alive.

18 Comments

  1. To live is to suffer, to love is to suffer, to hate is to suffer, to die is for others to suffer. However, if it didn’t hurt, how could you possibly tell if it was real? if it hurts, if it leaves a void, doesn’t that mean it had at least some value? Some kind of meaning?

      1. If I had to choose between pain or nothing at all, I’d choose pain every time. Pain is easy, once you get used to dealing with it. 🙂

      1. I actually meant that is the first question ricocheting through my mind when I find out someone close to me has died. But here, in this poem, the suffering is different because it is love or false love that dies, and this is beautifully wrought, my dear.

Love you, too

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