I don’t need to hold
onto my sadness
so tightly anymore
because I understand
it won’t do any good,
and how angry it would
make you, anyhow.
But just because I’m
not holding on so tight
doesn’t mean I ever
have to let you go.
And I think that’s
the way it should be.


People die.
And a year on
it still hits you
with a pang.
But after a while,
you start to be
okay again.
Life goes on.


They always say
you’ll forget in time
and I don’t think they’re
lying necessarily,
but I keep waiting to forget.

You don’t really forget
you just get used to waiting.


I still listen to your voicemails
at least once a week because
your voice is the most comforting
sound of any I’ve ever heard and
I’m so grateful to live in a time when
I can save you in this box,
take you out when I need you.


Last summer I took
my best friend’s hand
and we stole away
from the lakeside cottage
while everyone slept.

We held hands
through the carnival,
trying to avoid all
the things we shouldn’t
touch and laughing about
the lawsuit waiting to happen
spurred from the rides that
I used to love to be terrified by
in my youth when you and I
took this stroll down the beach.

I looked out over the water
and remembered how it felt –
when all I could see was you
and the lake – water stretching
far enough to convince my
childish eyes that there was
nothing in the world but water
and your hand.

When we got back to the house
I told them we’d taken you
back to the place you
loved most.



Not to be confused with this post.  Glad to know a year really does make a difference.


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