Aaand the poetry continues... Here's another from the Lit Café last month.
Like Dying
Your words to me signalled an unbearable finality
I didn't want to hear them, but, I had to hear you out
I had to hear you say that this was, indeed, the end.
You did. And, it was.
The end of us -
The end of us and we and our.
One call. Five
minutes.
Years of heartache.
I grieved my loss in silence
I petted my sorrow in my bosom of discontent
What little words I found within and without
I used to mop up tears of anguish.
And, when the words were full
I'd wring them out again.
Nobody tells you it's like dying.
I had heard you. Loud and clear. I was there.
But I felt better, safer, in denial.
My anger seethed and I drowned it in drink,
And ink - never to you.
I tried bargaining -
I called. I wrote. You would have none.
How I got the courage to
Fulfill that pre-death obligation
Remains a mystery to me.
Fifty people at that party, and I'd never felt more alone.
On the way home - and at home - I cried.
What did you do? And how?
Me? I'm still working on accepting that we've died.
-Dnafcnatgada
-Dnafcnatgada
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