What is left?
A box of documents.
Shoes in the closet.
A book of instructions, handwritten, left incomplete.
Not eyes, not fingers. Not touch.
Not voice, not laughter
Not words whispered before morning seeps into the room.
You have become the straw man. The representative you is everywhere, while you are nowhere. You have become the scolding voice in my head, the loving voice in my head, the hilarious voice in my head, brilliant and snide. The sad, scared angry, wrecked, tortured voice that begs me to please stay and again I say no, I am tired, I have to go, I have to sleep.
Love sinks me, rips me, eviscerates me, love pulls me to my feet and comforts me and covers me up and says it was real, it is real, rest now. Love never dies. Love brings me offerings, fragments and urges and memories of quiet gray mornings, and all that I need to remember and all I must let go.
Not coughs or gestures
Not rustle of movement.
Not grasp, not glance, not whispers, not breath.