There may be no mention of your name
no legacy to impregnate with grandeur over drinks;
the mythos of your being lies underneath the lid of a marble box with what is left of you
and what’s left is still probably too much.
They say of dust and to dust,
but you’re a fragile tangle of decomposition in the suit and shoes you barely got to wear in your youth
you can break them in now for as long as you need
until they fit right.
It’s always too late to call and remind you of frivolous homemade joys,
I baked a cake, we repainted the walls
we fought again and again about the same things
the house is cracking in all senses.
I stop myself at the same time every year
but in different rooms,
sometimes in different houses
ones with the same signs of dysfunction.
I stop myself and remember
that all of this is temporary
but I still cry about it
and paint about it
and mould it into different ways that I can understand.
It doesn’t take away the feeling,
but it’s the least I could do.
