This guy once refused to mourn
a little girl who died in a fire,
and we were shocked,
but here we are,
and mourning is forbidden.
We already had distance from death,
sending the dying to hospitals to
negotiate their final arrangements
with eternity in solitude.
And now we wrangle with loss,
alone, muttering final farewells
into wells of wine and beer.
We’ve got this far apart,
and, somehow, drifting
in starless night has made
us realise, against all odds, this
is community. God is in
the limen between me and other.
At one moment, this penumbral
light marks an opening, an escape,
and the next it marks the infinite fading.
I will forever whisper, “I love you,”
as a torturing tic of Tourette’s
until darkness muzzles the
motoring mouthpiece of my mind
and peace kills what remains of desire.