This morning I wanted

there to be eyes watching

out for us, something somewhere

caring that we died,

our buried bodies

begging to be born

This still life, not

a perfect portrait

but a hope held close

through seeing

clearly, every detail

sketched and owned.

Black days bake

the hardened

shell upon us,

lacking air’s light

mist, wishing

ourselves invisible.

But could you see,

revive us?  Could we

revive ourselves

by refusing

not to see

it all, our

flecked brush

moving as we render

its fragile form

Did I know you were leaving

And not want to see it, knowing

There were things to do

To make it stop

Those files to weed through,

The back up drive. I didn’t

Have time, I thought,

Or didn’t make it, but

Could have, to save us.

Then there is the point

Of no return.

When you walked from the room

saying nothing, we felt it

the way a tide turns,

slow but impossible to reverse.

Now there is the closed door,

The blank and irrevocable space.

No entry point to

circuitry or coding,

No rainbow

wheel to say

I’m still here,

trying

When the screen goes black

it is already too late

The empty door is

Behind you. And everything,

Lost.

You forgot yourself this morning,

forgot to matter;

the quiet pockets of invisible,

shedding life’s cloak. Yes,

freedom. Why bother? But also,

the voicelessness, the empty lack

of the silken threads,

that web around you. Did you really

want it, to escape to nothing?