Was

i always find it funny

having to use sentences in the past tense

when speaking of you

was...

is such an ugly word

with claws and teeth

that nip and gnash

some keep telling me 

that time is a line

but for now

it is broken and fragmented

the past cutting into the present

your voice echoing where your body

no longer stands

you are washing away

like chalk on pavement

but i keep drawing you back in

nudging the concrete reality

with my shaky fists

with my purple crayon

i can't stand in the house

my feet burning 

into the gray granite in the foyer

my ears screaming 

in protest against the clock in the kitchen

tick tick tick tick

this house 

smells like a life

this house

is lying to me 

as if you were still 

sitting in the leather chair 

with your feet propped up 

on the leather ottoman 

a finished crossword on your lap

this house

is lying 

so 

i won't speak of the prozac

in the cabinets

or the tissues in the trashcans

i wont speak of the wine

in the fridge left over from the funeral

i won't speak

but your books whisper secrets

from the shelves

there's the one you dedicated to us

the black ink set

by your own hands

i can still smell the printing machines now

like i was six 

and coloring under your desk

color is a language

and i am speaking in

blacks and greys

mottling the carpet in the den

dirtying the hardwood on the porch

sullying the sheets in the guest room

so i can avoid 

the shadows on the walls

the distortions in the mirrors

i can't look into the closet

knowing your coats and ties

swing silently on wooden hangers

i sleep with your army tags

underneath the pillow

a voodoo charm so that i might sleep

and dream painlessly

an obol for Charon

in case it becomes too hard to breathe

life has morphed into a static nightmare

like falling when waking up

or imagining that people's faces

are not their own

i'll keep speaking in the past tense

but i am not past 

this.