Songs for the Dead

Sometimes I forget, and I miss the way
your parting lips would remind me
you were always leaving.
Always packing your bags and opening doors
towards places I've never even dreamed of seeing
until you return with a camera full of pictures of
things I'll never forget, things I'll never know, things
I probably dreamed into being;
and the palms of your hands to
press against mine the sharpest memories I've ever felt,
ever heard, but yet they don't hurt

Some days I smile because it's all I have left.

Some days I feel like,
if I reached just a little farther,
I could brush your hand with the very tips of my fingers.
Or could hear your footsteps whispering hymns behind me,
but most days I'm the one chasing.

Each night at twilight, I close my eyes.
It's become a ritual
sitting, chanting all the things I miss.
All the things I loved.
The way I could weave your hair through my fingers
like a golden basket.
All it could hold was sunlight,
and my, would it shine.