Gone points to what I crave,
and what of the latest comedy
on my birthday?
Bewildering that I remember some peace,
because my self-study doesn’t work.
I accept there are no easy plans
where time remains empty.
And trying to unthink only takes me to an older ache
of why you were easier to love
until the final days, when I was evicted
into an impending end,
left to heal — alone.
I made the call:
What does one keep, when a person becomes unlisted?
Who’d insist on grief’s rendition or explanation?
I talk on the phone,
yet my exchanges seem simplistic,
a child dancing on the rooftops.
My conversation starts with,
“I have a scar I can talk about.”