Obituary
“And now who here
is not buried in
another person’s heart?”
— Richard Jackson
+++
I do have an obituary
for someone not buried in my heart.
He is a friend.
I once called him close.
At least I thought so.
Now he is just my roommate.
Our room is a chessboard,
and we move like pieces avoiding touch.
White walls, always watching.
The bed never settles evenly
one side remembers more weight.
Nothing in the room is folded into care.
Clothes stay where they fall,
as if even fabric has given up on return.
There is a poster of an erotic woman on the wall
not desire, not meaning,
just something neither of us removes.
The light switch clicks loosely
like it is tired of responding.
And I forget him
not as a wound,
but as something I no longer carry.
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Poem © Samuel Hale
Image: Mike Hindle Unsplash cropped