After Death

Thanksgiving

Quiet.
Too quiet
Inside of my head.
In the hallways.
In that house.
Muffled.
Muffled are the thoughts
That bend the world
Out of shape.
Out of mind.
For some reason,
You took a gun
And said goodbye
Without anyone getting the chance
To say it back.
How unprepared
You left us,
Stealing our breath
With the last of yours.
This day,
Like all days,
Will pass.
Somehow.
This Thanksgiving,
They won't be thanking
Anyone for anything,
Because they'll be
Praying
For you to come back.
I write poems
When I'm sad,
But it doesn't do shit
To cure me.
And it won't do shit
To bring you back.