I don’t even know the words I’m trying to find,
sitting here staring at the cursor blinking.
All my babies are sick, I wrote in a text
just yesterday. I hesitated over that line, that
simple line. All my babies. All
I couldn’t take it back and insert living
in between my and babies. It was too crude
too…just too. Many things. Real and
raw, and simple and true. All
my babies. All
three of them, not four. All
the ones left for me to aw, honey!
over their sniffles and sneezes, their relationship highs
and job lows, their new puppies and upcoming trips and
huge steps into all their tomorrows, like buying a house,
or a car, or a new brand of peanut butter.
There’s too much space between last time and next one,
That next one possibly the final burst of endorphins
released into my dying brain, or that wished for beyond of all beyonds
where a tunnel of light gives way to beloved ghosts, waiting.
It seems like too much wishing, and yet I will
on the off chance it happens to be the truth
And he’s waiting for me. They are. All of them, but mostly
him. Open arms (if arms we have) and brilliant smile
(if teeth are such a thing, lips curled up and over to flash in eyes once violet blue)
I’ll fall into them, and fall and fall and forever fall,
until the missing words fill in.