I bury him before his breath escapes his body.
The serrated edge of a memory invades me as I gaze upon you.
My eyes are yours.
I hate them.
For me they are velvety chocolate and they are wonderful for holding back tears.
They drip with honey in sunlight and they are perfect in the intensity of its glare.
Narrowed they intensify and betray a calm that I rarely feel.
They are my best feature.
On you they are ruined. The whites around impure, faded to yellow with age.
They are narrow and hollow, no trace of an essence within them.
They are bitter bark and scorched earth and they are wonderful for creating tears, though not your own.
I hate them.
The blade twists as you speak, shattering the fragile glass of my soul.
“I’ve missed you” spills over your blood red lips, pressed through by your forked tongue, lashing my cheek.
You believe your words.
I’m only stopping through, I offer to no one.
You won’t listen. You don’t know my voice.
We speak of nothing and you ask about her.
You smile when you ask. “How is your mother? How many kids does she have now?”
The space between your words is filled with the curses you don’t dare speak aloud.
My eyes are as cold as yours and I don’t answer.
I’m only stopping through. You say that you will call or visit. You do neither.
I pen the letter to you and the weight of you of hate of the death of me lifts.
I will never see you again.
Not even in death.
Your name was mentioned from a thousand miles away.
Frail and diaphanous you are more ghost than man.
Your mind is gone.
I cannot miss you. Valiantly I stare down myself piercing into my soul through my beautifully complex eyes, vainly trying to capture something of you.
You are gone.
The blade of recollection is blunt and dulled.
The pieces of me are yours no longer.