Death

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I don't see ghosts
or rest my elbows on the mattress
and clasp my hands together late at night.

I don't feel a presence
or talk to myself in hopes
that I'm not alone.

I sigh.
I wake each morning,
roll out of bed,
wander through the day.

Sometimes my throat hurts
when I refuse to cry
like I'm being choked slowly
by the hands of grief.

But I don't see ghosts
and I don't feel a presence
and I'm not sure where you are.

If I could guarantee that
I won't forget your voice,
that would be Heaven to me.

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