Empty | Gone

I keep trying.
I keep trying
to get into my own head.
But like staying at a hotel,
the key card I swipe
continues to say
Denied.

It is the oversized shawl 
in your grandmother's closet,
that absolutely 
had to have been 
a tablecloth 
in a past life 
but now carries
a different kind of heavy.

Loss makes archivists of us.
The edges of their fingernails.
The way they laced
their fingers together
when they were sad,
or mad,
or angry,
or afraid.

You can say those things out loud...
You can give them to the obituary writer
or the sermon giver 
or the person speaking 
on behalf of your beloved - 
but they will come out wrong 

They will sound sticky 
and mixed up,  
Like trying to remember
a language
you’ve forgotten
you know how 
to speak, 
while everyone watches
awkwardly,
sniffling 
and shifting their gaze. 

But it won’t matter. 
because no matter what words are said,
by whom
where
or 
when, 
it will not bring them back to you. 

It will not deflate your belly, 
still confused by the mixed signals 
it’s receiving.

There was life.

Honest life.

Living inside of you
one moment.

And then just...

Gone.

It will not teach your body 
that empty
and gone
are not the same thing.

Mostly, it’ll just feel like 
your skin continues to get scraped 
by a serrated blade - 
One you didn’t want.
Didn’t ask for.
Didn’t buy.