I’m sorry I never call..

You built swings, and crosses for dead bees..

You made paths through the meadows, found the way to the beach..

You sang, and told stories; knew the funniest jokes..

You made ponytails and wiped away tears.. kissed bruises better and warmed frozen feet..

And how you’d swing the scythe through the grasslands, and shadow the field like a god…


Then you died, again.

I buried you a thousand times.

I dug the graves with my fingers.


Remember when grandma used to say, that at the end there’s only sorrow to share,

when the gates are locked and the paint stripping off the walls…


But you joke; you tell those silly stories

and I can almost see you sitting on the steps..

Mute tears wiped swiftly with a trembling hand.

And you laugh, hopelessly clinging to the pretense,

desperate eyes searching for her;

the little girl in her silly dresses

the red bows you tied in her hair.


I see you walking to the old well

your eyes lost now, your heart numb

If only the fields could engulf you..

If only that bottle wasn’t quite so far..


You’re my home, dad..

I’m sorry I never call…



What is it all becoming, if not sorrow?

The nights wonder how his breath feels on the back of her head; ache for a touch, a gaze. The mornings cling desperately to a fading dream..

Perhaps amnesia is all you’ve left to wish for; forgetting his name, your own.. his maddening words. ‘One day’ he says, but you can’t bear it. Your whole body turns into a wound and you keep waiting for the skin to fall off so you could breathe again; but you know his absence shrinks around your neck every time your heart beats amiss.

Let me be! you beg. Let me be yours..