Not pain...
Let's not call it pain then,
but rather
a deserted gas station
along a busy road
sign still up, windows dark,
weeds through the cracks
in the pavement.
He left gradually,
even after he was gone
it took months for the print
of his green thumb
to fade from the yard and gardens
A motel-
vacancy sign swinging,
dead leaves
in the drained swimming pool-
and all the unread Bibles,
bindings stiff,
in the empty bedside tables.
The space she left in the world
when she did leave,
was alarming.
Her voice, paper-thin and raspy at the end,
had never sounded so human,
so full of a shared frailty.
And I want to tell you, but can't,
that the dead or gone never disappear,
we carry them around with us.
Negative space
is still
space.
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