One Year Later

I've learned that every day
is the day you died

each moment, the phone call,
empty on my side as a parking lot
at dusk, when the sun sets and the
masses clear and the deer have
already crossed the sea of asphalt
in search of green instead of
three staring eyes—headlights
and moon, each helpless in their distance

all of these hours, the same second
stretched endlessly over and under itself
until it is back in my line of sight,
slithering between my lashes and into
my dreams where I manage to hold you
again before you crumble back
into the ashes you are now

moving on is myth to me, a fable
with no meaning, a statistical
impossibility, a number no one will
ever count to, a singularity that
refuses to spiral to conclusion,

going on and on
snake, tail, and tongue
then tears.

Untitled Collage 1