There were no half measures with you, no formalities.
You slammed the door to yourself and were gone.
It was always an option for you, I am reminded,
the simple choice between being here or gone.
Some words have sharp edges. We dare not touch.
They insinuate themselves among the silence, never gone.
You wanted only to leave no trace in this world,
as though never here, and therefore never gone.
Grief has made a spare key to the rooms of my life,
walks in daily to remind me that you are gone.
My ghosts travel lightly, as familiar as breath,
though I'm losing track of who's here and who's gone.
In the end, you weighed next to nothing,
your body already a memory before it was gone.
Always a perfectionist, you had practiced, too, for this.
You left a thousand times before you were gone.
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