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 . . .

 

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.

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