Six Feet of Grief

One day

without you

is too long.

I went

from sole caregiver

to something

careless

and soulless.

Heartless,

by necessity.

I'm standing

backwards,

facing time.

For two years

I've buried you

beneath

make-believe

and whiskey.

Still,

you resurrect

inside my dreams,

my Lazarus

by moonlight.

The grave

has no authority

over memory.

It keeps playing,

scene after scene,

like an old movie

I know

by heart.

If only life

rewound

like a VHS

in 1999.

The only kindness now

is replay.

Blockbuster faded.

The tapes gathered dust.

The stories

never did.

Ghosts

of bad westerns

and worse pornos

still haunt

the shelves.

The air

smells

salty

and sweet.

Reality

is the horror movie

that never cuts

to black.

I scream.

The sound

never reaches

the surface.

It gets buried

beneath

coping mechanisms,

sympathy cards,

and quiet nods.

People mistake

survival

for healing.

It would be easier

to let go.

Instead,

I drink

through a straw,

trying

to breathe

under

these

six feet

of grief.