Questions For the Dead
Let me ask you this, now that you are dead;
do you still see me or do you just remember
how I looked?
Forty-eight years are a lot of years
to close the bedroom door
and suddenly find I am the only person
in the room. How do I feel? Alone
Do you even wear the clothes I packed
you off in? And if so, have you managed
to fray your shirt cuffs yet?
Do you know that Saturdays still exist for me?
that the bills struggle to get paid. That I still dress
in the same old clothes, and gave yours away
to charity because the blueness of your shirts
reminded me too much of your eyes.
Or, that no matter how I try I cannot caress
myself the way that you always did.
I truly miss those champagne moments.
And are our songs still played in your ears
as they are in mine, or do you just watch
me dance and wonder why?
Do you know when I am thinking of you?
Or should I speak in whispers as if your ear
were always by my lips.
Yet, now that I'm alone, I carry a secret question
deep within my bones; do you even exist
in that non-existent land? Essence
without substance, hope without truth.
Shouldn't Saturdays mean something again?
Shouldn't my bed be used to bring me more
than hollow, empty nights? Shouldn't my days
be spent looking for love and fresh buds?
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