Funeral Shoes

I slide my shoes on, they feel like funeral shoes. I deny. I bargain, too. I hope, out of habit. Sitting front row, witness to the passing of a life not fully lived. They say it's something like a rite of passage. And time has passed by so quickly, while I've been holding so tightly to hope. Hoping he holds on so tightly out of more than just habit. And if I could spend a day inside his head; a quiet ghost. Instead I clomp around in funeral shoes, the sound of singular footsteps echoing louder than ever. My presence echoes, even when it's been so long since I've been touched that I feel like a ghost. Some rowdy spirit haunting this place; these old, persistent bones erect out of habit, out of hope. One day I'll float from all this. But not today.

I keep having these dreams where everything is as it should be. As anyone would hope it could be. Where he tells me he loves me. Where he means it. Where he means all the things he says. Where I feel real, tangible.

One day I'll float from all this, out of habit, out of hope. But not today. Instead I slide my shoes on, like funeral shoes. I deny. I bargain. I hope, out of habit. It erodes from the inside out. One day he'll be able to reach right through me to grab a beer or book or blanket to keep the chill away.

It's so cold my lips swell. What good would they do? What good could they do? My presence echoes.