Why . . .

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 . . .



Your words not mine.

Nor his.





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.



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