d**h is real
Someone's there and then they're not
And it's not for singing about
It's not for making into art
When real d**h enters the house, all poetry is dumb
When I walk in to the room where you were
And look into
The emptiness instead
All fails
My knees fail
My brain fails
Words fail
Crusted with tears, catatonic and raw, I go downstairs and outside and you still get mail
A week after you died a package with your name on it came and inside was a gift for our daughter you had ordered in secret and collapsed there on the front steps I wailed
A backpack for when she goes to school a couple years from now
You were thinking ahead to a future you must have known deep down would not include you though you clawed at the cliff you were sliding down, being swallowed into a silence that is bottomless and real
It's dumb
And I don't want to learn anything from this
I love you