Friends want me back,
the old me,
happy-go-lucky, carefree.
This new character is hard to be with,
prone to silent staring and crying.
“It’s harder on us, we don’t know what to do!”
lamented one who hasn’t called back
maybe thinking it easier to just leave me alone
than to climb in the space I’m in.
I guess she’s right.
For as hard as your death has been on me
I am clearly the only one here
absolutely sure of what she is doing.
That being gathering every bit of data
pertaining to you
and my feelings of late,
documenting,
sitting,
writing.
No time for visits or pleasantries with friends.
Not meaning to be rude,
I am all in my head
and heart,
completely consumed,
driven to record as much as I can
before you fade from me.
I know this behavior is futile.
You are gone and my efforts will not bring you back
but somehow I have to keep trying.
There is real danger I may lose part of you
slipping through memory’s fingers
like beach sand,
fading,
for beyond frantic focus
my being is all air
out of balance.
Blown so far away by events of late
I have to put one foot in front of another
just to move,
and then,
I’ve no idea where I’m going.
