We left the door open for you
when you exited our lives.
The ghost of your overwhelming grace
looms in the frame of the spectacles
that you forgot on the bedside table.
The house has been sullen and somber
without the beat of the alluring romance
that diminishes each day you don’t waltz in.
I live with traces of company in this home.
The neighbors exhume your name like a malediction
and vulgarize their condolences with mocking slander—
they play an ugly game of charades at your funeral.
When you came back to us, rigor mortis and all,
I laughed when his tears fell on your face,
Cackled until I gasped for air and my eyes stung.
His large, lanky frame shrunk without you;
the way he declines into nothing is an eyesore,
though he was pitifully merciful of your departure.
In the absence of his partner in crime,
he will remain a fraction of himself forever,
remolded to fit the shape of mornings without you.
I’ll be at the door if you wish to stop by.
I baked a third croquette and the plates are on the counter;
it’s a new set of fine china and I won’t forgive you if you break them.
I placed your Doraemon keychain on the mantel last winter;
it’s desaturated from the sun but you can always wipe off the dust.
And I will mourn your absence the way mountain caves are carved out by rain,
hollowed until floods reverberate like sobs and only echoes moan back.
The walls quiver even from sounds close to zero decibels,
like how the inside of one’s ribs shake
when it’s too damp for their heart to beat.
Even if we can no longer see you,
we’ll still be waiting at the door
because I’d rather laugh with you than at you;
I’d rather watch him dance with you than grieve empty space.
So as long as “you” can be a word and entity and memory,
there can’t be anything to take your place.
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