late tears

i don't cry until a week after the funereal.

i'm making tea. boiling the kettle. pouring water. watching the teabag drown and then- hands are shaking. boiling water scalds my skin like an angry ocean. burns. but not as much as the tears on my cheek. not as much as my heart.

i collapse in the corner. like the kitchen counters are the only things holding me togther. perhaps they are. becuase god. i miss you. i miss your very presence. this room feels empty, this house feels empty, fuck, my heart feels empty.

friends and family have been visiting all week. offering condolances and cards and soup. why does anyone think soup can fix a broken soul?

i tip all the soup down the sink. and place the cards in a black bag on the street. there are other black bags in the hallway; full of the possesions that seemed so megure before you left. i can't throw them out.

sometimes i go and sit in the hall and bury my head in the contents of those bags. they still smell like you. i can alomost pretend you are still here- till i feel the tears on my cheeks.