How strange it must be, for you,
To lay in silence.
A body preserved in
White marble, muddied
And stained by years
Of the Rain, weeping over you,
And your loss.
Allowing the soil to caress you softly,
So that you might smile.
I never saw you smile.
How strange it must be, for you,
To no longer be haunted
By the banshee wails
Of a distraught mistress,
Unable to untangle the
Ball of plastic breathing-tubes
Enough to hold you against
Her breast.

You never saw the world as I did.
If you could ask what living was like
I would’ve told you it was fun.
Because life was fun back then.
I wish I could have seen you,
Your unruly hair
Tucked lazily behind your ear.
Your laughter wrapping around
The hallway and refusing to let go.
I wonder sometimes what you would say to me if I told you I was scared of dying.
I wonder if you’d tell me what Death was like.
He was a luxury you could afford.
After all, white washed walls
And bleach stained floors
Were no place to call home.
You knew that better than anyone.

Maybe that’s why you’ll forgive me for not crying.
For not seeing past the body that enslaved you,
Bare-backed on the changing table,
Your lips a demon’s mouthpiece,
Scratching at your throat to concede
To its screams
In the faces of your mother
And your father.

But for me?
For me you had nothing left to say.
I was nothing more than another face at the window.
I couldn’t save you in the end.