STUPOR
no one
calling my name
this morning
a cup of water stays
cold
in the microwave
preparations
for the memorial
the chrysanthemums
quietly wither
on the side
an avalanche
of memories snowballing
into grief
the stories behind
a box of receipts
every now and then
the flicker of a firefly
. . .
still in my hand
all of you I need
to let go
not accepting
what goodbye really
means
my breath lingers
in every shape and sound
of spring dusk
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