You looked in the mirror
before you did it. You cut
off all your hair in misshapen
awkward chunks, some spots
clean to your scalp.
You didn’t leave a note, but
two days before you killed
yourself you gave me your
you never wore the dented heirloom
and it didn’t fit your slim wrists,
it would look better on me.
When I pointed out that it no
longer worked your shrugged and
simply stated, “time is a silly thing.”
I stand at your funeral
consumed by the list of frivolities I
didn’t know about you, overwhelmed
by the uselessness of words and the
futility of remorse, devastated by
the continuance of the ordinary.
The sun rose this morning, but the
winter chills me to the core.
The radio continues to play and I
know all the words to one song
after the other.
Cara, we will never
sing together again. We will never
exchange excuses of why we would
should postpone a date or how it
it is so lovely to be alone.
It has been over
one hundred days and
all I can say is
“Come back” is previously published in Anvil Tongue (2022).