by Austin Campbell
The kitchen floor is cold
on a Friday morning in late December.
We should be dancing
a snowy backdrop
that Nat King Cole song –
you know the one:
on an open fire.
We used to own that flame.
I did it again: pretended things are okay.
The Christmas tree blinks at me,
mocking me in elaborate sequences.
Tried to call you again this morning –
you pretended you were too busy to answer.
All I taste are sour memories,
that milk being in the fridge for weeks,
and having to go to work at seven a.m.
Neon lights downtown
the snow made it a movie scene;
your eyes were so alive
you were so happy.
Even three years would have been nice
though we’d still dwell as much –
on those mountains we never climbed
or the child we lost too soon –
you wouldn’t have gotten a proper life…
not with me, I convince myself.
Time opened these wounds.
Healing is a matter of perspective.