the words
‘i’ll miss you’
sound different
on the lips
of a dying lover,
second-hand.
i listen
while he tells of
moments of horror
of her sons
his breakdowns,
and fears
i too
once knew
so well.
with vignettes
laying waste
to order
as we
go rifling through
the contents
of now distant memories,
her words
brought a tear.
oh, bittersweet
robs life
almost
from the living.
of all
the questions with no answers
dripping saline,
i have lived
within
these stories he tells
sitting
across from me
on grandmas
ancient
faded
green velvet settee,
on these mornings
of coffee and truth.