I wake up and

my brain is intertwined with

the thought of him.

It starts soothing,

memory laces his smell in my nostrils.

It quickly turns to panic,

as I remember he has been

the leader on the list of

flight risk.

They tore down the wall and found the fireplace. Ash and age had stained the bricks, which they cleaned as best they could. The woodworking around the entry took more time. Some occupant in a misguided age had painted it, covered the grain and its ornamentation in generic white, but a scraper and painstaking hours released the relic within: chestnut, common enough in 1891 but a disappeared wood now. It took the years and the blight between to clarify its worth.

This is the living room in which our dogs play, where we drop crumbs while watching television, where our children have spilled juice, and that is as it should be: this is a room with history.

Resurrection of the dead

is a slow,

yet rewarding process.

Resurrection of those

who think they are dead,

however,

is much more brutal.

You begin by paring

the outer layers.

Then,

you will find it requires

ravenous peeling,

mending and patience,

only for the hope

that they will finally believe

they are alive themselves.

I mourn the death

of a man, living and breathing,

yet I don’t understand

how he moves onward

without me

perhaps it is my death

I am mourning

me, living and breathing,

yet no longer alive

waking up

is still

the hardest part.

there is a second

of limbo between

unconscious bliss,

filled with security

of your eyes,

and the memory

of how I lost it all.

I have learned a lesson

of inevitability.

It is less of

something being destined

to happen,

and more of your mind

giving in to your thoughts.

It is entirely avoidable,

and yet,

you fall victim to your desires.

**your mind is the darkest place I have ever seen

Who were you?

What did you embody

before the world told you

what you should?

What were your dreams

before life cut

your strings of hope

with a jagged, rusty knife?

Do you resemble

anything you once were

prior to the harsh

reality of

being entirely alone?

Is your inner child

still there?

Have you suffocated her

entirely?

Did the erosion of

the tides-

extremely high

then

extremely low,

take what you were

out to sea

for eternity?

What is left

of you now,

but what society

carved you out to be?

the sand castle

crumbles down to

the incoming tide.

the sun’s rays,

harsh and suffocating,

demands water to dry.

the full moon

sweeps you away

from me once again.

**if you’re reading this, please come back

I will dig

my own grave.

The idea of a man

who never even

knew me,

shoveling six feet

into the ground,

is too ironic.

Or maybe

I will set myself

up in flames.

The idea of a cremator

who sees me

as just another body

to ignite,

a number,

is utterly morbid.

Perhaps

I will simply

disappear.

The idea of leaving

all of the souls

with the image

they created of me

in their head

is a form of revenge.

he unravels in liquid,

as if he is soluble.

it gives him permission

to play with his thoughts

without immediate consequence.

when he sobers,

he always regrets,

tossing his stoic armor

back over his vulnerability.