One more month and sixteen.
Caught a cold, got the flu.
Soon turns into pneumonia, untreated colds
watch out for them, take heed their warning.
One more month—not yet sixteen—
can’t make it, can’t make it.
For some reason didn’t make it to sixteen, to on,
left early to move on, left us early for some reason,
for some reason or other.
Crying, writing, holding
the need to be touched conquers all
need to be around, be together, get through this.
Everyone’s been crying, red eyes, bulging, chapped cheeks, bulging,
hair tangled, messy, letting themselves go.
A walk to the bathroom,
footsteps on tiled floor, always seems louder,
free stall, go in,
writing on the wall,
remembrance, love note, upsetting R.I.P.
“you will always be remembered, through we.”
Maybe we’re not ‘sposed to remember,
because remembering keeps them on this imperfect earth longer.
They got away, let them get away,
this imperfect earth.
Let’s hope it’s better there, up there, down there, all around here, wherever they are,
hope it’s better, but not perfect.
Perfect I will begin to doubt.