So I write this elegy not / for them; / but for the spaces left in the dust on my mantelpiece
Content warning: references to death and grief
When a person dies they linger
and you might have to water their lemon tree
or scrape them off pans
but how do you mourn something
that was always a ghost?
My inheritance is wet hair
and late-night texts that I trace with my thumb;
a desperate search for an epitaph that will satisfy
and let me wilt with dignity.
is a metallic taste
an earthy one
ironically rich but heavy, congealing once
it reaches the pit of you.
But I do not miss them, I do not grieve
it’s that green light that I wail for. It’s the loss of my mind
which saw things that I’m told just weren’t there.
So I write this elegy not
but for the spaces left in the dust on my mantelpiece,
for the tasteless wind that rattles my window, and for that
which still haunts the songs that once
consumed my heart entirely.