I've heard that death gives advance warning of its arrival.
I guess I find it strange that it always comes as a shock.
Death of people, death of feelings, death of hope.
I guess I should have seen it coming.
Throughout it all I can't help but find that I don't check
My hair in the mirror as often. Don't clean the sheets either.
I can't remember the last time I made a meal for four--
Or two.
I have, however, found that the morning sun is much more
Bearable than it ever was. The moon, not so bearable.

My mother told me that I could be anything when I was a child.
Forever a dreamer, trapped in the prison of adolescence.
I'd lay down on my bed, in perfect waterslide form. I'd listen
To the low rumbles of a summer thunderstorm over the crackled
Radio signal.
Never once did I close my eyes and dream of being heartbroken.
Not once.

But solace lurks somewhere between these evils. The thought
Of moving on, the notion that this ache will subside.
My prayers rest with Johnny, and Monty, Deanna--to you just names,
And maybe that's okay. To some, children are objects, jobs--income,
And some believe that Ted Hughes is a murderer.
I do not think these things.

Somewhere between sleep-drunk afternoons and tear
Filled conversations with my mother I began to understand
What Phil Collins is always singing about. Maybe I will begin
To understand why flowers smell so sweet when they're living,
But look so useless when their dead.

A vase of white roses lay dried up on my kitchen table.
A few petals have found their way to the hard surface to rest.
I'd throw them away, but they are my only memory of you.
I bought them in March, it is now July.
Through the hot, humid days, the only thing I have to remind
Myself of a love so powerful it could change the weather is a few
Crumpled, soulless petals. I could never throw them away.

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