(no subject)
I saw your father mowing the lawn as I drove past your house. I didn't occur to me until that moment that grass still grows there.
Every day I am a coward. I see the light on in your kitchen. But I don't knock, because your bedroom is dark.
The excavation of my bedroom has unearthed you. Underneath a stack of papers, you surprise me, shy and smiling in your crisp white shirt.
At the bottom of a cardboard box long let go from conscious thought, I dig out the neon proof that you were here, and that you loved me.
In my dreams you are never young. I think I always thought of you as older. I can't believe how small you look in pictures.