now it’s forty
and there are no words
each one I reach for collapses
each memory dead ends
this anniversary is an excavation of memory
a miserable celebration of our past
that point in time when your future disappeared
into a dark wormhole
now, in this bitter today
we keep fragments of your passing
smiling at the rose-coloured glasses you wore
holding back a tear at the laughter you provoked
holding on to shadows in the middle of the night
I do not try to forgive myself the guilt
remembering the anger I felt
when you stood me up for lunch
not knowing you were morgued beyond appetite
an empty stage is all that’s left
holding echoes that no one hears
except those of us who loved you
which was everyone you touched
David Trudel © 2014
