sometimes he is not dead
he has just passed into another room
of the big house we all wander about in
he is waiting now
for the interlude
or is it just that he waits for the moment before i wake
where he can be beside me
as i sleep
watching and loving me silently in the dark
and it gets hard
sometimes i am lost
i cannot find the light switches and i trip on issues and judgments
i search the house
wrought with grief
slamming cupboards and breaking glasses
the darkness lets the fear tight in my chest grow like weeds
the sickening feeling of alone claws at my sides and i curl smaller and smaller
seeking comfort in the foetal position
his eyes smile back through the photographs
still images of what was
and i realise
i am looking for something that has never left my side
and i am grateful
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