Life After Death

 

Every so often I find myself

drifting back to the me

who met you in that strangest

of all places, the prison,

and memory recreates

those bleak details, walls

and high windows and

everything very basic

and the you whom I met

with all that light in your eyes

as we sparred or enthused

over poetry, and I melted away

to become all inner self

made visible, and in your eyes

of ocean-blue, you too 

shone clearly through.

Occasionally, dreams.

Many when you first died,

some forgetfully happy, some horrible.

Sometimes, now, almost

matter-of-fact. After all,

I hung on. Though you left me,

you have never left me …

the sweet small things remain

stronger after all than the torments.

Of course that comforts.

I want to believe, though, 

that you live beyond

memory and dream,

your own reality going on

with or without me. I want

to know you continue.

Written for Friday Writings #250: Memories and Dreams, at Poets and Storytellers United.

Many of my readers will know the back story to this poem. I'm very much hoping it works even without that background knowledge.