You Can Probably Find It In Norfolk - Barrow

There’s a smile that I wish I could find;

just a whisper in the current left listless and undefined.

You’re still the apparition on the backs of my eyes;

an uncertain dissonance humming onward as I seek sleep.

Sleep for myself, it’s yours if you need it, but the dawn won’t allow us to

keep it.

I’ll keep talking until you finish my sentences;

you always do.

I keep finding myself floating on waves of silent disagreement,

illustrating my own insensitivities.

I’ll swallow my pride if my stomach can hold it.

You can cut me back open.

Is it wrong to say that I’ve been praying softly I’ll go first?

I’m still coping with where love goes when we’re sleeping in the dirt.

I’ll bury you in orchids hoping heartlessly to bloom.

I’ll dread the hours left as sunlight sneaks into our room.

I’ll pack our lives in paper, tell my friends that I’ll be fine.

I’ll burn our memories in silence just so nothing’s left behind.

I’ll keep your image in my eyelids and your voice inside my head.

I’m still sorry for the things I’ve never done and never said.

The ground is littered with the remnants of remembrance.

There will be no memorial;

no monument made.

We will only receive but passing glances.

Our fingers, intertwined, breaking away,

we are painfully aware that there is nothing left.