THE COLD
I sit here, cold, just down the road
from that old gray stone where your name
goes unspoken, like a secret kept
in earnest, as if the whole world
depended on it’s silence.
Beyond my window a raven keeps watch,
a great black blotch on an otherwise
perfect sky. Suddenly, tears
and I can’t help but wonder,
why now but not then—
when I
stood over your body,
whispered my last goodbye,
and you, eager to leave us behind,
fell through the dirt like sunlight
through soil, ignoring the wails
that whispered your name—swallowed whole
by that unforgiving earth.
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