how it felt

i last spoke with him on the phone on monday. he died on friday.

i did not hug nor kiss him when i first saw him lying there. it just did not seem right because i only said hello pa whenever we came to visit him when he was still alive.

i went and touched his hand though and looked at his sleeping face. this was the first time in a long time i looked at him more than just a few seconds. it was probably the first time ever.

and i wondered, no i asked, in my head. he should be able to hear my thoughts now, right? well, yeah, so i asked him how he felt. how it felt.


leaves are rustling with your hair when you look through the window, vines curl up your back telling you stories of dissipating days and dreams,

you wait for him to say
to say

           you wait

           for things
           not to happen

for a kiss that leads to no more
for hands to let go
for words to not be said
for teardrops to fall from the brink of her nose
for the night to end
for boredom and sleep
for every failure to rest and sink in

          and never be forgotten

you wait for them to stay
to stay.

first draft of this poem had been recited here