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?