Visitation Wrongs

As I drive by, I promise
that as winter thaws
and your lawn shows itself
in patches of soft mud
I will visit.

We will be quiet together, you and I.
Everything I have not said to you
will rush back and forth in my mouth,
weaving tapestries of my lovers,
of work and of my degrees
through my teeth
because we have not spoken in years.

My tears will fall at your feet,
on your heart,
and my hands will shake
with discomfort
as my fingers curl around my thermos,
pressing close to find warmth
that does not exist here.

Tonight I simply sigh as I drive past.
I bury my self in the stream of headlights,
a river along which you have become
only a passing mention, somehow.
Regret for my absence chills me deeper
than the frost that now hardens your grave.

February 2012

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