(photo is a still from my music video for Slip, by Chris J. Cunningham)
what of
these reams of rememberings,
the years
on the wrong side of now.
a box that could swan dive
from the closet,
faded, illegible
confetti.
one by one,
the loves grow stale
as loaves of bread..
and the dance
that nostalgic nerves do,
ends.
too long gone.
tick tick,
i don’t know your voice.
you cannot say
it’s me
anymore.
all of the handwriting blurs.
it is a little bit like dying,
tipping the relics
into the trash.
seeing the crowns
for the paper they were.
there are real objects in the room,
the book lying on the chair,
the jar of the candle,
to make light of whatever
weight i gave these ghosts.
there is a hum
coming from the fridge
saying i am here,
and they are not.
I was deeply moved by the way this poem quietly shifts attention from memory itself to the ordinary objects that remain present. The final image—the refrigerator humming "I am here, and they are not"—is extraordinary. It refuses sentimentality while offering one of the most honest portrayals of grief and letting go I've read in a long time. Thank you for trusting simplicity. It carries enormous weight.
yes.