I
I believe in death.
And when death came,
the world fell silent.
And when death came,
it was a Tuesday morning,
March 21st 2023.
I believe it was cloudy,
with hints of moist,
with a chance of rain.
Something degrees Celsius,
I remember it felt colder.
I believed in death,
when it came on a Tuesday morning,
on March 21st 2023.
Where a murky shade
that once was Mother Nature
took hold of your eyes,
I believed.
I believed in death, and it saw you.
I believed in God when they took you.
Tuesday afternoon,
I got the news.
Doctor called with an autopsy,
I don't think I heard much.
I don't know,
I don't remember.
I don't want to.
I believed in death when they closed you up in a bag,
I believed in God when I wanted to see you again.
I believed in Heaven when I wanted to hear you again.
Sunday afternoon,
March 26th 2023, 3:06pm,
I walked up to the crowd of blurry faces
wearing nothing but black.
You always liked yellow better,
but it's in the dryer.
My throat felt closed,
My ears rung,
My eyes blocked.
I don't know what I said,
but I remembered people holding me,
hushing me when I spoke,
hugging tightly when I spoke.
It felt so bizarre.
You never sounded so quiet before.
I'm not used to silence,
and I don't want to be.
They said it'll "get better."
But no, I don't
I don't want to get better.
I don't want to learn anything from this.
I don't want to understand.
March 21st 2023,
Tuesday morning,
cloudy, moist, and cold.
March 26th 2023,
Sunday morning,
non-descript, of no description.
There is nothing worth learning from this.
I walked into a depression,
our apartment complex.
Today, we would have chicken and rice
for dinner. Some orange juice would
be in the fridge. It would have pulp in it,
and I didn't like pulp, but you said you
enjoyed it, so I drank it anyway. You
chuckled and pretended you were
impressed I could handle my pulp
like the man I should be at this
current moment.
There is a depression where the other night used to be.
"It was only natural, such things are meant to happen."
Sister at church told me as much,
but I don't agree with her.
If this is what she meant,
then such nature shouldn't take its course.
I hate this, and I hate God.
I believe in death, and I hate it.
II
March 28th 2023, around midnight.
There is a ceiling above, followed by space,
followed by stars, followed by galaxies,
followed by somewhere beyond me.
Do you think God would treat me
unfairly as they treated you?
Maybe they already have.
On sleepless nights like these,
I would turn to my side and you were there.
I drew circles on your back just to wake you up.
You would let out a little groan and console me.
You would share a warmth so assuring,
it would make the world stop turning.
I turned to my side and no one was there.
I drew circles, in hopes of waking up.
I let out wailing and tears and frustration,
I wanted to hurl and forget the world,
forget the world
ever
happened.
I drew a shape of you with my finger,
outlining where I would wrap my arms around you,
where my kisses would be and your scent would be.
I painted a shadow of a memory, if nothing more
than a memory.
You were still okay in my memories,
and it hurts saying "memories."
I know, I'll still be waiting.
I'll say "Good morning" like an idiot,
I'll do the laundry like an idiot,
I'll knock on the front door like an idiot.
Like a dog to his owner.
A week after your death,
it still hurts to swallow.
I think of an angel when I think of you,
and now I regret it.
I'll regret life for the rest of it,
every day I spend not being with you.
I grabbed your still-cold hand.
I forgot it wasn't there,
when I opened my eyes
and saw the sheets I was gripping
instead.
I don't want to name a corpse after you,
and I don't want to touch any calendars.
I don't care if I sound selfish.
Fate is selfish, stupid and dumb.
There was a honeymoon on the horizon
built from moments on the sand
and a five-year foundation.
There was us on the edge of a hill,
when time stood still on a bed
of two train tickets and me
and you and silence
between us.
Is it my fault for looking forward to it?
Was this something I should've known?
Did God intend to separate us
and place the guilt on me?
After the first week, an hour passed.
Then, another. Then, another.
Clicking and waiting, a part of me
was holding out for hope, as
hopeless as it sounded.
There is an open space
where mass cannot occupy.
It is where my eyes still roam,
waiting for an illusion to solidify.
I leave out the blanket, hoping
you stay warm regardless.
You'll still stay warm regardless.
And I know, and I'm sure of it.
You'll be nearby regardless.
I'll say goodnight and tomorrow.
III
They offered me counselling.
After the first week, then a few more days,
they lent me a spare ear.
I didn't remember much after that,
just words and rehearsals and the like,
the sort that grow numb after a point.
And somewhere beyond me, there you were.