I've wrote that I died with you. I warbled sonnets about our mutual loss and pain.
Now I try to find a pinpoint on the day of resurrection, of when my breath retook.
No, this sorrow never fades; the grief is always here, but slowly like a cataract
time grows and fills the eyes with a dull impressions of a life.
I remember weeping at loss, pain, grief. Begging light to chase the darkness.
I don't remember the first rays of sunshine, the mourning not quite done.
Today I think I have a rhythm, that's supposed to be me, but the edges of definite
are gray and smudged like a horizon of rain where the suns supposed to be.
My memories are like that of the storm, bold in the lightening of a moment
yet fluffed and fading in the darkness of the storming grief. For what is me?
Do we come to a single point where we are an exclamation of our past?
Does our history define us? Our blood and bonds design our personalities?
I have no history. Not that I can name. My childhood memories overshadowed
by that the single bolt of horror, grief like aftershocks that crumpled my psyche.
Who can give me details of our life before your death? No ones left to speak.
Who but you can tell me about my infancy, or adolescent schemes?
In grief I wrote I died with you, dramatic at its best. But here I find I might truly have,
for I'll never find that fledgling flight. Who will tell me what the pictures mean?
All you left for me is lost, but those fuzzy infant memories. Truly orphaned
there is no past to see. Who will tell me of your legacies?
I have nothing left of you but me, who will speak of you to me?