looking out the window that day you knew it would end
and this is the last time I'll dig up your body
because I don't have anymore questions to ask of your bones

the drain is clogged again
and the toothpaste floats in floral
patterns on the surface of the muddy water

I could create an entire language of the half
words I never finished saying to you
I could build a house out of all the years you took

and this is the last time I'll look back over my
shoulder to see your breath hanging like a ghost
from the tree we never carved our initials into

I cut you out slowly, strand by strand, as I shaved
my hair to the root. I thought it was rebellion,
but it was an old mourning ritual I learned before I was born

and it worked. As the hair inched down, my body
healed and my mind returned from its wandering 
and when I looked in the mirror I saw that 

days had ended and begun again
that the moon had risen in its fullness 
that tomorrow morning will always come, 

even when the night felt like a heavy door that a thousand 
other men could never open. I was wrong. 
The door was a veil and when the wind
blew again, the veil lifted and I was born to myself.