At this point, there seemed little point
In belittling the finer points, preferably
We’d have been bigger than this. But this,
In all its pointlessness, points less
To what we had been and would know no more
To more likely us waking, back to back, knowing
The presence of sorrow moves above us,
Knowingly shuttered in some lovers heads.
Some that go are gone with only so many words
Uttered. That said, we suffer in silence
The dry, bruised bones of tragedy shouldering
Through, for this hush, bruised and bloodied, shining through.
At both my brothers' funerals, someone said to me, "I thought you'd be the first." To end it all comes down to this: remorse, remise, of course, because there are no words. I could say a thirst, or worse, a curse, but hurt, never, even in the remote moments spent, each cigarette singing as we burn the bridges we're building. We turn, in turn, remembering the reasons the seasons have long since turned. I return to somewhere believable where we wear our hearts on our sleeves, even in sorrow, bringing horror as honor. Even in retrospect, these precipitous sentences seem balanced with the best of intent. Waking the ghosts, nuanced and in full voice, believing the memories they leave; leaving little more than the reasons we grieve.