[concerning death]

the fascination

keeps me moving.

lunging into corners

startling silence with musings,

i can't help but wonder.

the unnaturalness

against how natural it is,

the sadness

mixed with the need to know

every. gruesome. detail.

the awe of

blinding, flashing, brilliance,

and the disappointment in anything less.

the desire to conquer the one power

we could never defy...

and why can't we ever find the words?

we use wreaths and black sheaths

to say we're sad

but what should we speak

when faced with fact?

since eulogies are only acceptances

of awards not realized alive,

and obituaries the only details we can bare to share,

headstones just name tags to fallen faces,

words fail us.

and i fail words...

for i can't find the right combination

to offer mourner.

i fidget, lower my head

in reverence of a place

i don't quite believe in.

i send cards with generalities,

and give space that doesn't save a person

any pain.

i don't want to be a

fake friend or family member

telling easy stories when all i wish to do is

take blanket and bury myself

until i am ready.

and i am not ready...

to talk about it.

but when i am,

we can share our hand-sown stitches,

in lazy late afternoon,

in 3 a.m. urgency

for there is no comfortable position

to take the call telling you

someone's gone.

the spaces between our bones and flesh

that keep count of our losses

the ticks and tallies

of the many pricks to our pride

our hope

our faith

are crevassed and cared for, in private.

and we have no words

no way to relate

that we don't know what it means

to never be the same.

so we use music,

affection,

letters,

flowers,

food

to translate.

we all have lost,

and from our own empty

we can read these gestures.

for you are lacking,

and i understand.