People have their own lives,
Updates become a due,
Death cuts down all time,
Then time must move on, too.
Offers of help get quieter,
(Thankfully in a way):
Sympathy visits for moments
It doesn’t intend to stay.
In the end, it’s always you,
While everyone falls asleep;
You lie awake and breathe
And dread to dream too deep.
I will place the Laurel wreath,
I will put up the green tree,
I will laugh with concerned friends,
And that’s just what you will see.
The tears I shed for us,
At each breaking of dawn,
Won’t be placed in the crib,
You bought from Bandra town.
The wrenching of my heart
Succumbing to sorrow
Will not be baked in cakes
I order tomorrow.
There will be the advent,
There’ll be carols and cheer;
But all will be aware
You chose not to be here.
There will be frost and ice;
At home, all that is nice;
But, in my heart and head,
I’m crucified instead.
Every time I think I am getting over
you,
A friend comes home
And says,
”You’re better off, boo”;
Or
an underwear
You
left
behind,
Sneaks out of our drawer,
And fucks with my mind;
Or
I see some guy
Walking down the street…
And I am reminded
of your
Hair,
or eyes,
or gait,
or feet –
And, no matter what therapy I have gainfully employed,
You
descend on my heart,
And I find it
destroyed.
Hearts Still Care 
You must be logged in to post a comment.