You left sixteen months ago
and at times I still feel your eyes on me,
those calloused musician's hands
on my body, without hesitation
or second thoughts.
I still wake up in the dark
and see your shape under the blanket.

I don't cry anymore,
though my stomach still drops
seven stories
when your name comes up.

There are still songs I can't listen to
at full volume,
flying at half-staff in some sort of
mourning.

11/04/2011

Posted on 11/04/2011
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