How
is it possible
conceivable
that
this
is you?
Where did you go?
You went
from being a rock
constant presence
constant solace
to what?
This can not be you.
Six
polished
dark wooden sides—
three groves
are the only decoration.
The table cloth puckers around
where you were placed—
Trays of brownies
thrust aside to make room
for you.
You do not belong
on the dessert table
next to a bowl of strange Asian candies
Grandma bought on sale
at the Asian-Mart
You should be here
next to me
on the couch—
instead of this strange old man
who tells me he’s sorry
for my loss.
My tears should not be running
down my cheeks
they should be absorbed
by the scratchy wool sweaters
you would always wear
and I would always hide my face in
to inhale your scent
and hide my tears.
I do not want this abundance
of sympathy soup
and pompous looking flowers
I want you
you are not that box across the room.
Maybe my eyes are yours
and my poise
and my sentimental heart
but I want you back
to sing me my song
one last time
and tell me
about your life
because the more I hear about you
the more I understand in me.
So please
wherever you are
wait for me
because someday
you will have much
to tell me.