Not all of us are born into families waiting to love them.
That means we construct our own families along the way.
People are trying to tell me something about you.
Something sad they say
but I’ve sent them all away.
I don’t have the time right now to put things aside
to hear them tell me how you died.
Nor watch my world grow blacker still.
It’s not within my will.
Nor do I have the tools nor time to build a dam
to save me from
the waves to come
as I already stand here rooted ankle deep in
this deepening pool of black and forced to stay
where your tracks have been washed away.
My weepening eyes stubbornly fixed upon a distant hill
It’s from there that I can and still
hear the creaking
of some future rocking chairs
which we were speaking
of as young girls.
Undercovers. kissing. giggling.
Late night stories and the jiggling
with laughter about our happily ever after.
So while I’ll have to face it soon
as inky tides rush towards this room,
I’ll choose to listen, lingering on
a little more from years
before
I face the fact you’re gone.
photo
© Andrey_Arkusha
Ramsy's Joint 