fridays / grief / patpatforever / poetry / poetry / progress

95

95 Fridays
and I still keep count
ever increasing numbers
they’ll still never surmount
or even touch
the aching vacancy
the numbness
that I hold
it’s just a silly way
to find some sense
within my soul
because your ab-sense
is exactly that
away from logic
fact or study
away from any truth
except goddamn
I miss you, buddy
and that’s the truest verbage
I can craft around that bubble
the shining fact
that I can excavate
from all the rubble
of the world
that I once knew
that I held dear
where I could hold you
not this one
where it’s all that I can do
just to uphold the who
you might have been
and who you’ll never even
get the chance to be
where the only way I hold you
is in silly poetry
where I can wrap my
words around you
instead of loving arms
carving verbal shapes
that hold the sillage of your charms
it’s still alarming
every morning
when I wake
without your face
without your breath
and the smell of your sweet head
here in my bed
and in it’s place
I just have
95 Fridays
in growing amount
665 days
and I still keep count
because
you do

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