This bed in which I sleep
stand beside
lamp upon
Ours now mine.
Why . . .
All of his once furniture
infused in the TV bench
Ours now mine.
Why . . .
Pint glasses of
ginger beer
fresh pressed juice
Ours now mine.
Why . . .
Hurried.
Your words not mine.
Nor his.
Surely.
Really?
Why . . .
Why would I take on
your meaning
When I have just begun
to most fully carry my own.
We each grieve
in our own way.
Own.
Bring the Joy 