I’ve been writing poems in my mind.
They all began the same: a cry out, a hope, a wish.
A thousand words that all finished where they started—
I love you, I’m sorry.
But the words fell flat against the walls of my mind,
echoing, echoing, echoing. Empty.
That’s how I felt when I heard the news
and how I feel now. Numb. Deaf. Scratching
desperately at a closed door with no answer.
I wish I could make sense of your mind
the way I’ve always been able to make sense of my own.
Thoughts that slide so easily into poetry, into neat lines
and verses and words with a rhythm, calculated and perfect.
Even if perfection isn’t real. I’ve always wished for it.
Wished that one day you’d wake up and see clarity.
Now these are your last moments and I just wish you’d wake up.
Maybe I was always wrong. Always thinking I could fix
what I didn’t even understand.
All I know is that I’m praying for your eyes to open,
to see what’s real, to see my face hovered over yours,
eyes bloodshot and tired.
I have never understood the inner-workings of your mind

But I promise you, this time I’ll try.