i hate the way people ask “how are you” after someone’s died
when two pairs of grieving eyes meet
and the injured words crawl off of their lips
silently dropping to the floor without so much as a ripple
in the wet air
Knowing, as if they can look in your heart and see
your towers slowly crumbing
Hesitating, because there’s always the fear that
your falling towers will take out their own
but Hopeful, because maybe, just maybe,
your towers will fall together
meeting in the middle, catching each other,
and the sounds of breaking glass and smell of singed hearts
won’t be so bad.
as you feel the cold water fill the room,
you’re tempted to roll up your pants and wade towards them
but the name of the lost is written on the bottom of your shoes
so you don’t want to move.
you would rather sit on the porch with Death and
gaze at the blurry stars.
you stand there, mouth slightly open,
tasting the broken and pain-ridden air,
as your “Good” jumps from your lips and
lands next to their question with a splat.
they seep into the ground, together, arm in arm.
i don’t know why we hesitate to reach for bruised hands.