THE CHAIR sh(c)2008

I don't care that they say you are dead,
because I know it isn't true. 
Your smell is meshed in the pillow
on our bed and when I sink my face
into the cotton covered feathers -
I breathe you,
gulping at your essence
until my lungs and senses are full. . .
So how can you be dead?
This silence is obese and I can't let go.
So, I've put a CD into the player
and I'm listening to your voice sing -
your fingers play with the guitar strings
and I'm bathed in your smile, and
I know you cannot be
would not be - dead

We're soul mates - remember,
together forever.  And you wouldn't
choose to leave me - so I've locked
the door to keep the harbingers at bay
and drawn the curtains,
on this cold ashes day.
My breath has been sucked
I caw like the crow
but if I open the door your
spirit will go - without me. . .
This is neither just or fair and now
my friends and family want me
to move the chair that I've
wedged against the door
but like the wounded crow,
I just caw and caw. . .