seeing death

came home to see life,

and instead

saw death.

 

I missed the last good years

and the guilt

that breaks my heart

somehow makes me feel heartless.

 

I remember pink lipstick

and white hair

and too much blush

and ageless beauty.

 

I remember snarky comments

and worn out advice

and exaggerated stories

and eloquent wisdom.

 

I saw

uncombed tufts;

bloody skin;

a blind gaze;

a hollow voice.

 

selfishness wishes

I had closed my eyes,

so my last memory

could be a different one.

 

but I whisper a promise,

“no more missed time.”

 

bc, 2016

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